


Black Water

by LunaCatriona



Series: Black Water [1]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Angst, Domestic Violence, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death, Season/Series 03, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-03 23:17:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 51,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12156819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaCatriona/pseuds/LunaCatriona
Summary: With the world crashing under Nicola's feet, it's Malcolm left to guide through the black waters of what remains. It's not a job he'd have chosen for himself, but they can't have the Secretary of State for the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship going to pieces, can they? Her husband is a million times worse than useless, and the kids can't do much to help. It's much less hassle for Malcolm if he keeps all these pieces of Nicola Murray together than it is for him to pick them up off the floor and try to work out the most complex, infuriating, anxiety-ridden, emotional, out-of-whack jigsaw puzzle known to humankind. After all, the only feeling Malcolm has ever known for Nicola is the overwhelming urge to throttle her, right?





	1. Abyss

Malcolm’s phone rang, right in the middle of a squabble with Nicholson. Fucking Terri. “What?!” he snapped.

“Malcolm, we have a bit of a…a situation,” she answered, sounding utterly flustered. “Is Nicola still in the Cabinet meeting?”

“As far as I know, but I’m not the fucking Oracle!”

“Okay, so, her eldest, Katie,” Terri continued, ignoring his short-tempered comments. “She’s dead, Malcolm. Her husband phoned to tell me because the hospital told him because Nicola’s phone is either off or on silent, and the press are already all over us like a rash and-”

“Does Nicola know?” Malcolm demanded, all infuriation with Terri lost in the magnitude of what was about to happen.

“No. We can’t get hold of her. James wants us to tell her but none of us know how to break it to her.”

“I’ll be right over,” Malcolm assured her. He hung up the phone and turned to Julius. “When Nicola Murray comes out of that Cabinet meeting, you stall her for as long as you fucking can. Ten minutes, if you can manage it. I need time to make some fucking arrangements since her husband isn’t in possession of a fucking spine!”

“Why? What’s happened?” Julius asked.

“Her daughter’s dead,” Malcolm muttered, pulling on his jacket. “I need to find out the details, write up a statement for her. The reporters are fucking swarming as we speak.” Julius did not argue. Give him his due, he did have it in him to step up and stop being Twat of the Year if a problem like this arose. “Just make sure she doesn’t phone the hospital back, or her husband. Keep her talking so she doesn’t look at the fucking phone at all until she gets back to DoSAC. What a fucking mess. It’s gonna end up me telling her the kid’s fucking dead,” he grumbled. As much as Nicola got on his last fucking nerve, he would never have wished this upon her, and did not relish the prospect of breaking the news to an already anxiety-ridden, emotionally fragile Nicola Murray.

Julius nodded, and clapped his shoulder in what was the closest to a gesture of support the baldy ballbag was capable of.

Malcolm sprinted to DoSAC. He barely stopped for traffic; actually, he didn’t know his body was still able for such athleticism. He didn’t bother with the lift and instead ran up the stairs. “Terri!” he called out, from halfway across the office. “What the fucking hell happened?”

“Well, the husband says that Katie was out with a friend who just passed her test last month and they crashed. The friend is in critical condition in Intensive Care and Katie was dead before she got to the hospital,” Terri explained. “What he wants to do is, since it’s already three o’clock, he wants to pick the kids up from school and he wants Nicola to go and identify the body.”

“He’s not at the hospital?!” roared Malcolm.

“No, he’s at work.”

“This is him all fucking over,” growled Malcolm. “Did he at least divulge what fucking hospital?!”

“King’s.”

“Right, it’s easier to do it his fucking way,” he sighed. “Olly! Write a short statement. Mrs. Murray’s eldest daughter has been fatally injured in a tragic car accident, loss of a bright young life, family requests privacy at this painful time, you know the sort of thing. I’ll read it on our way out the building.” Olly nodded and turned to his computer. “Glenn, Robyn, Terri, just keep the fucking piranhas at bay, alright? Tell them we will make a statement at half past four, and tell them to tell their guys to keep it fucking respectful, okay? We need this to come out on our terms or we risk Nicola losing the head. And someone call her driver around.”

“Who’s going to tell Nicola?” asked Olly.

“I’ll do it,” Malcolm answered.

“Malcolm, are you sure that’s-” Terri began; Malcolm stared at her, hoping it would bring about her silence, but it did nothing of the sort. “I just mean, well, you’re hardly Mr. Empathy.”

“Do you think you can handle the fucking breakdown when she finds out?” challenged Malcolm. “Mrs. Fucking Fluster-Fuck, you’ll just make her melt into a fucking unsalvageable puddle of shit. I’d need to mop her up into a fucking water bottle and she can identify her daughter’s body through the fucking plastic! At least I can keep her composed between the atrium and the front fucking doors!”

Terri held her hands up, clearly thinking better of arguing the matter, and picked her phone up to start making calls to the press. Malcolm did the same; the next half an hour passed with them calling journalists and warning them not to show up until half past four, and not to be insensitive about it. Well, Terri, Glenn and Robyn warned them to behave themselves. Malcolm preferred the approach of, “Show Nicola some fucking respect or I’ll ram your microphone so far up your arse you’ll be listening to your own bowels move for a week.”

When Nicola finally returned, it was with Julius at her side, seemingly boring the arse off her. “Alright, I’ll, uh, let you get your nose back to the grindstone,” he smiled at her – a smile she returned while looking thoroughly unnerved by Julius’ bout of social interaction. Malcolm, when Nicola’s back was turned, nodded his thanks to Julius before he left the office.

“What?” Nicola asked. Everyone, much to Malcolm’s annoyance, was staring wordlessly at the Minister, their eyes wide and somewhat terrified by the prospect of a grief-stricken Nicola Murray.

“Nic’la,” Malcolm said gently. “Can we have a word in your office, please?”

“Why? What’s going on?” she demanded, though she did make her way into the office. Malcolm shut the door. “Malcolm? Malcolm, you’re scaring me now,” she admitted, setting her bag down and kicking away those heels she so loathed.

“Sit down.”

“I’m fine here. I’ve just spent the last Christ knows how long sitting on my arse.”

“Nicola, please sit down.”

“Spit it out, Malcolm.”

Malcolm, knowing he would not get her to sit down, stepped closer to her. He wanted to be close enough to catch her if her reaction was one that caused her to collapse. “Nic’la, Katie, your eldest, she’s died in a car crash.”

“What?” Nicola said. Her face paled. “What? No. You’re lying. This is your idea of a fucking-”

“I’m not lying,” he assured her. “James called us. He said Katie went out with a friend of hers, the one that passed her test last month-”

“Molly,” interjected Nicola.

“Yeah. Well, um, Molly crashed. She’s in Intensive Care, she’s in a really bad way,” he informed her, making sure to keep his voice low and benign. “But Katie…Katie was dead before she got to the hospital. I don’t think there was anything that could have saved her, Nic’la.”

And out of nowhere, Nicola’s fist made sharp contact with Malcolm’s face; he was briefly knocked backwards, the warmth of blood trickling from his mouth. “What the fuck was that for?” he shouted.

“You think,” Nicola screeched, punching his chest, “this – is – fucking – funny?!” she cried out, punctuating each of her words with another blow to his chest. “Is this some fucked up attempt to derail me out of the job?!”

“Nic’la!” bellowed Malcolm. He grabbed her by the arms, if only to limit the damage she was hell bent on inflicting upon his body. “Nicola, I swear to you, this isn’t a wind up.” He took her by the face. “Look at me. I am not joking. I’m not playing any sort of fucked up game. Your daughter is dead. She’s gone. And I am so, so, so fucking sorry,” he told her.

That did it. Nicola let out a wail of shock and agony. Her legs went from beneath her and Malcolm caught her, guiding her gently to the floor. He held her tight as her body shook uncontrollably. The last time he had cradled another person like this, it had been his niece as a baby.

Terri quietly opened the door and said, “That’s everything sorted, Malcolm.”

She handed him a sheet of paper and left the room, making no comment on their position, entwined on the floor. Thirty seconds later, Glenn entered and handed Malcolm a box of tissues, pointing to his own mouth. Malcolm nodded and mouthed, “Thanks.”

“Nic’la,” he said, keeping his tone as calm and tolerant as possible. “You need to go to King’s and identify Katie’s body. James is picking up your other kids.”

“Trust fucking James to leave me on my own to do the worst thing I can think of ever doing,” hissed Nicola, her anger with her husband’s cowardice unmistakable. “Picking the fucking kids up. Dodging the worst job, more like.”

Malcolm rubbed Nicola’s back; he completely agreed with her on that. “I know. Fucking spineless twat.”

“Come with me, Malcolm,” she said. “Please. I can’t go and do that on my own.”

Malcolm sighed. “I was always gonna go with you, Nic’la,” he told her. “Come on,” he said, helping Nicola to her feet. Her make up had run all down her face – and onto his shirt, not that that was any priority at all – and her hair was a mess. “Come on and we’ll get you cleaned up.”

He guided her through the main office to the toilets, his hand resting on her lower back. They entered the ladies’, much to the disgust of some civil servant who happened to be washing her hands when they walked in. “Fuck the fuck off,” he snapped. The woman scurried out of the room, though she did not look happy about it.

Malcolm soaked a paper towel and set about wiping off Nicola’s make up; it was better for her to go out with no make up than it was for her to go out looking like she’d had a fist fight. “Now, Nic’la, the press will be there when we leave the building,” he said as he wiped away the last of her mascara. “You don’t need to say a fucking word, darling. We’ve got something sorted out to tell them. You just concentrate on holding yourself together, okay?” She nodded but did not give any more of an answer.

He drenched another paper towel and set about his own wounds, wincing as the moisture hit his lip. Nicola took it from him and started to clean it up. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I shouldn’t have hit you.”

“It’s fine,” he reassured her. He put his fingers into Nicola’s hair to sort it out, pulling sections of it back into their rightful places. “Don’t you even fucking worry about that.”

In true Nicola Murray fashion, she burst into tears again; he pulled her in and held her tight, trying, just for a moment, to feel what she felt. He stopped after only a moment because never wanted to feel that again. That was one abyss he never wished to venture into ever again.

It was twenty past four by the time Malcolm had Nicola composed, presentable, wearing shoes and a coat, and had everything from Olly’s statement memorised. He always felt it was better not to be reading from a piece of paper to the press. “Ready?” he asked Nicola.

She didn’t answer; she just started to walk, far slower than she normally would, making it agonisingly clear that her destination was the last place she wanted to be.

They reached the atrium, and Malcolm could hear the buzz of journalists outside the door. Nicola stopped dead five feet from the door, and grabbed Malcolm’s hand. Normally, he would have threw her off and told her to get a fucking grip on herself. Today, he squeezed her hand and allowed her to hang onto him for dear life.

“First off,” he addressed the crowd once they were out the doors, “I would like to thank you for heeding our request for organisation. It is much, much appreciated. This afternoon, Mrs. Murray’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Katie, was involved in a car accident which took her life,” he called out. Nicola leaned slightly closer to him, and he briefly worried that the papers would spin their proximity into some monster of an affair. “She was taken to King’s College Hospital, but tragically succumbed to her injuries. Katie was a bright and energetic girl, known for her charm and wit, and her love for life. Her family, friends and the wider community have lost a wonderful young woman. Mrs. Murray would like to thank the emergency services and the staff of King’s for their efforts to save her daughter’s life, and asks that her family’s privacy be respected as they grieve the loss of a daughter and sister. Thank you.”


	2. The Best of Malcolm Tucker

Malcolm sat in the car with Nicola, listening as she tried to muffle her sobs and hide her tears in the intermittent darkness between the streetlights. DoSAC was likely the last place she wanted to be but she had to stop and collect all of her belongings before heading home. Although, Malcolm wasn’t all that sure Nicola wanted to go home at all.

The problem was, he had no fucking way of being sure. Her face was unreadable beyond the tears of grief for her child. “Nicola,” he murmured. “I know you don’t want to think about it right now, but what’s your plan? How long would you like to stay off work?”

Nicola turned around, and this time, there was no mistaking it. Her expression was mutinous. “I’ll be back at work tomorrow.”

“What?!” Malcolm exclaimed. “Don’t be fucking ridiculous!”

“You really think I can bear to be stuck in that fucking house with fucking James and the fucking kids on my back?!” she retorted, her swearing on a level with his; that was never a good sign.

“But you’ve got a funeral to plan and-”

“And I will do that in my spare time, in the evenings. We need to keep to a routine. The kids can have tomorrow and Friday off but they _will_ go back to school on Monday, I _will_ be at work tomorrow and James can do whatever the fuck he likes, for all I care. It’s not like the bastard’s going to actually parent the children, anyway. They’re better off at school.”

It was the most she had said during the entire journey; Malcolm had to wonder what home was like for her, even before this upheaval. It sounded like she might as well be a single parent, or else had one overgrown child to look after in addition to her other four. Three. Three children.

Malcolm closed his eyes for a moment. He almost wished he hadn’t gone with Nicola. She had asked him to stand with her when she identified the body. That image of sixteen-year-old Katie Murray’s pallid, scraped, lifeless face would never leave him. It would never leave his memory. It was something, having had no children of his own, he had never expected to see – a dead child. He reminded himself to hold his niece that little bit closer the next time he saw her.

To get him in to see the body with Nicola, they had omitted to disavow the staff of the assumption he was James. It wasn’t exactly lying. They just refrained from correcting the nurses and doctors when they addressed Malcolm as Mr. Murray. It had given Nicola what she had so fucking desperately needed – someone who had a bit of courage to hold her hand through the most painful experience of her life.

The driver stopped outside the DoSAC building, and waited for them to get out. They didn’t.

“C’mon, Nic’la,” Malcolm sighed. “You’ve got to go in. All your stuff’s in there and your driver can’t sit here all fucking night.” She didn’t move at all. He wasn’t even sure she had heard him. The only thing he could do was get out himself and open the door on her side for her. He held out his hand, and it was with a look of confusion that she took it and stepped out of the car.

What was so fucking confusing? Or was that just her going back to her default facial expression – the one that made it completely and embarrassingly clear that she was fucking winging it half the time?

Together they walked the stairs up to the DoSAC offices; he was absolutely fucking shattered but he wasn’t about to try and force Nicola into a lift, and he wasn’t going to let her walk up on her own. In all honesty, he didn’t know what her state of mind was like. Could she be trusted not to do anything he might live to regret allowing?

They reached the offices. The lights were off, aside from the small areas where the cleaners were still doing their thing, and the whole place had that eerie feeling that used to scare the shit out of him when he had to walk through his darkened primary school alone after football practice. He hadn’t really grown out of that in the past forty years. Not that Malcolm could ever admit so much to Nicola; even in her state of grief, she’d probably manage to rip the piss out of him.

Nicola did not start gathering her belongings. She just stood there in the middle of the room, small and lost. It was amazing how little space Nicola filled when she wasn’t annoying the fuck out of him. She wasn’t particularly tall or particularly wide. The only obviously large thing about her was her hair. He noticed only now just how thick her hair was.

He wandered around the room picking her things up, packing her briefcases and her handbag. It was a good few minutes before Nicola spoke. “Why are you doing this?”

“What?” he replied, making sure her purse was in her handbag.

“Being nice.”

Malcolm closed the handbag and picked up her briefcases, remaining silent until he was facing her. “Believe it or not, Nic’la, I’m not Voldemort. I’m not some evil fucking lunatic.”

“I’d say you’re more like a sweary version of Mad-Eye Moody, but anyway, continue.” He raised one unimpressed eyebrow with her, though he was internally relieved that her sense of humour had not completely abandoned her. “What? I have kids. I never had a hope in hell of avoiding Harry Potter.”

“I’m not a monster, Nicola. Not really. I’m a human being. Maybe not a particularly fucking good one, but not a bad enough one to fuck off and abandon you the day your daughter dies,” he explained. “And if you repeat any of that, I really will turn into fucking Voldemort, okay?”

A ghost of a smile flickered across Nicola’s face, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. “You’d rather I never reveal the best of you?” she said, her voice so soft he barely heard her. “If you insist.” He fixed her with a glare for carrying on the Harry Potter analogy but, again, was ridiculously glad she still had the capacity to deliberately wind him up.

“I do fucking insist. Move your arse,” he ordered, handing over her handbag and one of the briefcases. He carried the remaining one down to the doors, where her driver had remained, knowing the arrangement to go in and grab her stuff and head straight home.

He put her briefcases and handbag in the car for her. By the look on her face, she did not want him to leave her, but there were several fucking brilliant reasons why he had to.

“I don’t think James would be very fucking impressed if I escorted you home,” Malcolm reminded her. “Particularly if he ever finds out I pretended to be him.”

“That’s what the fucker gets for not going with me,” Nicola answered, a slight tinge of venom in her tone. Malcolm had the distinct impression that Nicola would never quite forgive James that particular fuck up.

“Look, if you need me, or you reconsider your fucking insane plan to come in tomorrow, just call me, okay?” he offered.

To his amazement, Nicola smiled. It wasn’t a wide smile, and it wasn’t filled with happiness, yet it was still sincere. It was not false. “I rather like the best of you, Malcolm Tucker.”

“Fuck off,” he retorted, though he couldn’t help but give a gentle smile back. “Go on. Away home.”

* * *

 

The phone rang. His mobile.

Malcolm turned over and looked at the screen. Nicola. He looked at the time. After three in the morning. “Hello,” he answered, aware his voice was still somewhat groggy with sleep.

“Malcolm, I’m lost,” Nicola said. She was crying, or else panicking. Or both.

“What?”

“I had a bust up with James and I walked out the house in my pyjamas,” she said, “and I just kept walking until he gave up on calling me. I must have walked for fucking miles. I don’t even recognise-”

“Is there anything there that can give you a clue where you are?” asked Malcolm, getting out of bed and swiping the touchpad on his laptop; he had forgotten, in his exhaustion, to shut it down before bed. “Any pubs, restaurants, schools, public buildings?”

“Corpus Christi?” she answered him.

Malcolm froze for a moment. He knew where that was. He passed it fairly frequently. “The Catholic school?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“How the fuck did you get to Lambeth?!” he shouted. “Did you walk?” He picked up his keys, put his coat and trainers on and ran out the door, scarcely halting to lock it. “You must be fucking freezing!”

“Not really,” she confessed.

“Fuck’s sake!” he cursed under his breath. Starting the car, he added to her, “Stay where you are! Do not fucking move, Nic’la, I mean it. I’m on my way.”

“Okay,” was all she had to say. She hung up; Malcolm tossed his phone onto the passenger seat and started to drive, wondering what the fuck Nicola was doing, wandering around London on her own, at night, in her pyjamas in fucking October.

He drove and drove, hoping he remembered where this school he had never consciously passed actually was. To his great relief, however, it dived to the forefront of his mind, though perhaps only because he knew Nicola was in danger.

The heavens opened as he turned right, torrential rain bouncing off the windows quicker than the window wipers could throw the water aside. He could barely fucking see.

And there she was, standing, completely drenched, shivering in her pyjamas. He parked the car and dived out, tearing off his coat to put it around Nicola’s shoulders. “You fucking idiot,” he growled at her.

Wrong move.

She burst into tears, presumably out of fatigue, grief and the fact she was soaking wet and freezing cold. “C’mere,” he sighed. She fell forward into his arms; her body really was fucking cold. “How long have you been out here?” he demanded.

“I don’t know. The kids were finally in bed, and James was…” she trailed off. “We fell out. I think it must’ve been about half past eleven. I heard a church clock strike midnight not long after I left,” she recounted. She could at least count how many times a bell tolled, then.

He closed his eyes and sighed. Why, why did she have to be married to that utter twat? All he seemed to do was infuriate her. Tonight, he had upset her to the point she had walked the streets of London for over three hours, presumably just so she didn’t have to share a house with him.

Malcolm guided her into the car. “Put your seatbelt on,” he reminded her before he pulled away. He turned the heaters on, trying to get her warm after standing out in the rain for so long.

“Don’t make me go home, Malcolm. I don’t think I can handle it. Him. I can’t face him.”

“Nic’la,” Malcolm groaned. “You want to go to work tomorrow, right? You’ll have to get ready, and all your stuff’s at home.”

“You could drop me off at mine an hour before I get picked up,” she suggested, her tone little short of pleading.

“Wait, you want to stay at mine?!”

“Please, Malcolm. Please. If I go back there tonight, I’ll go mad. I already feel like I’m going fucking mad.”

Malcolm, though Nicola did not pay enough attention to know it, made the turn in the direction of his home, not hers. “Fuck’s sake. Fine. But you fucking text James and tell him you’re fine but you’re staying at a mate’s, okay? I’m not having him sending out a search party and it being all over the news.”

“Like he’d send a search party for _me_ ,” snorted Nicola. “He’s probably glad to be fucking shot of me.”

“Fucking text him or I’m taking you home!” he threatened her. It was not a threat he would fulfil, but it was one she believed he might, and that was good enough for him.

“Alright, fine!”

“Good.”

This was going to be a long fucking night. That realisation hit Malcolm about thirty seconds after re-entering his home, when Nicola simply stood in the hallway, seemingly without the capacity to understand she could not stay in her wet clothing. It didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. Like her external senses had been diminished by her internal suffering.

Thankfully, Malcolm was skinny enough that his pyjamas fit her, apart from the fact they were about eight inches too long on her. He took her to the spare room. “Bed’s there, bathroom’s across the hall,” he told her. “Sleep tight.”

“’Night, Malcolm.”


	3. 5:19am

Malcolm woke with a start. His sleep had been rudely disturbed by the image of Katie Murray’s dead body, her skin bloodlessly white, the scrapes and bruises vivid against their pale canvas. It was an image he knew he could never erase from the back of his mind. It was always going to be there.

When he caught sight of the time – 5:19am – he groaned. He was going to be so fucking knackered, and he had to get Nicola up at 6am if she was going to work fully dressed. She couldn’t really go to work in his fucking pyjamas, could she?

Was there any point of going back to sleep for under an hour?

Not really.

So he crawled out of bed and crossed over to the spare room. In the view provided by the streetlights through the curtains, he saw Nicola curled up into a ball, finally escaping the world that seemed so determined to fuck her over. He wasn’t one to blame the world for a person’s problems, but before Nicola Murray had a dead kid, a shite husband, a job that was enough to send anyone fucking barmy, fairly serious claustrophobia and anxiety issues, and Malcolm Tucker for a Director of Communications, fate appeared to have it in for the woman.

She was definitely sleeping, but her escape didn’t seem all that restful. Here was a woman who was confused and anxious about the world around her at the best of times, and now had to add a lifelong sentence of grief to that confusion and anxiety.

There were times he had entertained the idea that Nicola was from another realm. His snarling and shouting that she was not a normal person came from a theory much deeper than the obvious bundle of ineptitude she was. Sometimes, he found himself believing she did not belong in this world, and that this world was not good enough for her. Not the other way around. Never the other way around. The world caused Nicola so much anxiety, so much apprehension, on a daily basis that Malcolm wondered if her soul came from this place.

She was someone who might have been more suited to the quieter side of the world, but found herself dumped in the middle of the noisiest, rowdiest, least sensible place on Earth: government. And on some level, she had chosen to be there. Perhaps she only intended to be a constituency MP, but she chose Parliament. That was the level she must have been able to see herself functioning at.

Quite suddenly, Malcolm almost felt guilty for lassoing Nicola into the Cabinet. It caused her a very different kind of stress than it caused most of her peers.

Taking care not to make too much noise, he headed to the kitchen and took Nicola’s pyjamas out of the washing machine and threw them into the tumble dryer. He didn’t want to land her in deep shit by sending her through her front door in men’s pyjamas. James might hit the fucking roof.

He pulled the butter, milk and orange juice out of the fridge, took the cereal down from the cupboard, started on some coffee, and shoved some bread in the toaster. He’d be damned if that woman was leaving here without eating. She probably hadn’t had anything since lunchtime yesterday. Christ, when did he start thinking of that idiot as a human being rather than just a walking, talking ball of fuck ups, blighting his life with her infuriating quirks and soul-destroying incompetence?

At quarter to six, he wandered through to the spare room, knelt down and gently shook Nicola awake.

“Hmm?” she mumbled, turning over to face Malcolm. Her eyes were barely open, her face pale and tired.

“Are you still wanting to go to work, Nic’la?” he asked her.

She nodded with a smile, her eyes opening properly. “Up you get, then.”

He stood up and opened the curtains. It was still dark outside, so it didn’t have much of an effect, other than to let the orange glow from the streetlights in. Her smile did not fade; it was more than a little unnerving to see a bereaved woman, known in the media for having a gloomy demeanour at the best of times, smile like this. And if she were to be caught on camera looking so happy less than twenty-four hours after her child dying, the press might just question her already debatable sanity.

“Nic’la, if you go into the office with that stupid-looking grin on your face, the press will fucking crucify you,” he told her. She clambered out of bed and stood before him, drowning in his pyjamas. “They’ll be asking what the fuck is wrong in that head of yours.”

“Christ, one minute I’m glum and smug and now I’m too cheery,” she muttered. “Can’t fucking win, can I?” She bustled past him in the way she always did when she was angry or frustrated with him. “Come on, then! I thought you were taking me home so I can get ready for work?!” she shouted back down the hallway at him.

What the fuck was wrong with her?

Malcolm stalked out of the room after her. “Use your tiny wee brain for a moment, Nicola, and tell me how James, your fucking husband, would react to you walking into the house wearing men’s pyjamas,” he reminded her. “And you’re not leaving here until you’ve had fucking breakfast.”

“What?”

Nicola was completely confused, and Malcolm couldn’t understand why. “If you think I’m dealing with a fucking hungry Nicola Murray all day, you can fuck right off home and stay out of my way,” he warned her. “You’re gonna feel shit enough as it is without fucking starving yourself to top it all off.”

“I am _fine_!” laughed Nicola.

Malcolm stared at her.

“Or at least, I _was_ fine until you turned into fucking Kim Jong-il and made me your totalitarian dictatorship!” she added; her voice was rising with her temper, as it always did, and Malcolm found himself lost. How did he deal with this behaviour? “For fuck’s sake, Malcolm, just give me my clothes back and take me home!”

What the fuck was she playing at? Did she remember she had fled the house, walked for miles to get away from James? Did she remember that her daughter was dead? Her behaviour suggested she did not. Or, perhaps more likely, that she did not want to. And that had to stop now, before she left this building. She could not go home and pretend it hadn’t happened, and she definitely could not walk into DoSAC like she had nothing to grieve for. If nothing else, that sort of behaviour would scare the shit out of everyone, and if the press got hold of it, he would have to force her into taking leave; that was not something he wanted to do. Nicola maintained she would be best place at work, where she had a clear role and a purpose, and he had to believe her.

Malcolm took a few steps towards her.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Nicola snorted, eyeing him like she was the one questioning his fucking sanity.

“No, what the fuck is wrong with _you_?!” Malcolm retorted, his self-restraint abandoning him in his bewilderment and frustration.

“What?!”

“Katie’s dead!” Malcolm roared at her. “Your fucking daughter is dead and you’re swanning about the fucking place like it’s all fucking bright and dandy! You’re fucking scaring me, Nic’la!”

“Fuck you, Malcolm!” Nicola screamed at him. “Fuck you!”

“You walked out your home last night and fucked off into the streets! I picked you up in fucking Lambeth! What the fuck happened to make you leave the house in the first place?!” he demanded.

“That’s none of your fucking business!”

“I was the one who picked you up at three in the fucking morning!” Malcolm bellowed at her. “You stayed in my home! I washed your clothes! I think it kind of is my fucking business!”

Nicola turned her back to him and stormed off into the kitchen. He followed to find her yanking her pyjamas out of the tumble dryer. “D’you know why I was up early enough to dry your clothes and make your breakfast?!” Malcolm asked her, finding he could no longer lower the volume of his voice, despite Nicola being a mere few inches from him when she stood up. “I woke up because in my sleep, I saw Katie’s fucking dead body! Now, I didn’t even know the girl, but just seeing her body-”

He stopped talking. There was a dangerous lump in his throat. A weakness he could not let Nicola see. He was meant to be tough. He was meant to terrify. Nicola was supposed to be intimidated by him.

His original point – that if Katie’s death was causing him nightmares then, logically, Nicola ought to have been barely functional – was lost as the image floated to the front of his mind. Before yesterday, he had not known the sight of a body so young that hadn’t been to a funeral director first. He had never seen anyone at all dead at the age of sixteen, before they’d properly lived. He had never seen the body of someone whose face was so pretty and young and yet so marred by injury.

“Malcolm?” Nicola’s voice rang out. It brought him back to his kitchen, to the argument, to his attempt to behave like a good man.

Nicola’s hands were on his face, her thumbs wiping away what Malcolm was most ashamed to find were tears. He looked down at her and mumbled, “Sorry,” though he could not keep the embarrassment out of his voice. He was supposed to be strong, not standing here crying like a fucking ten-year-old watching _Marley & Me_.

“Oh, Malcolm,” she breathed. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Hey, don’t turn the tables. I’m not the priority here,” he said, though, admittedly, it was a rather feeble and desperate attempt to turn the spotlight away from his own issues.

“You are _my_ priority. You’re the only support I’ve got at the moment. Believe me, it’s in my own interests to look out for you,” she admitted. “Did it upset you?” she asked. He didn’t need any clarification.

“I just…I just wasn’t expecting her to be-”

But he couldn’t find the words to describe how Katie had looked. It was so profoundly inexplicable. It was all, rationally, very simple and yet the sight of the girl lying dead on front of him, covered only in a white sheet, her wounds still so shockingly visible, was something he struggled to get his head around.

What frustrated him more than anything was that he was normally so unshakeable. Unfuckable, as he liked to remind his colleagues. And right at the moment Nicola needed him at his sturdiest, when she needed him with his feet on the ground and his head on his shoulders, he found himself traumatised by the sight of dead young girl.

This was not the way it was supposed to be. He was not the one who was supposed to be holding back a flood of tears. Death didn’t ordinarily cause him to cry; what was so different about this?

Nicola spoke once more as she pushed him down onto a kitchen chair. “Sit down, Malcolm.”

Nicola Murray, the grieving mother, was trying to look after him. It was fucking backwards. It was unacceptable behaviour on his part. His anger with his own weakness – combined with the tangled cluster of emotions about Katie, his sudden appreciation for the fact Nicola was a truly decent human being, and his burgeoning need to protect her as best he could from the outside world while she grieved – overwhelmed him. For the first time in decades, he broke down into tears.

She pulled his head to her body and rubbed his back, doing the same as he had done when she had been in this state yesterday: whatever she thought might comfort him.

“So, Malcolm Tucker isn’t just the lean, mean bollocking machine,” Nicola sighed. “He’s an actual functioning human being. Well, that dispels some of the rumours, I guess.”

Malcolm let out a short laugh through his tears; Nicola’s fingers stroked his hair, and, for the first time in years and years, someone actually gave a fuck about him, in spite of all his monstrous flaws.


	4. Heartbeat

It was only after Malcolm had pulled himself together, forced Nicola to have some breakfast with him and got ready for work himself that they managed to get in the car and head to Nicola’s home. It was after seven o’clock before they managed all this. They had eaten, dressed and – thus far – driven in silence.

A silence Nicola, in typical Motor Mouth Murray fashion, seemed compelled to shatter.

“Malcolm, don’t feel bad, or ashamed, or guilty, or any of that, about reacting the way you did,” she said. “It’s human, that’s all.”

“I need to fucking man-” he started to grumble.

“If you say you need to man up, I’ll fucking slap you, Malcolm Tucker,” Nicola growled with an astounding ferocity. “That is _exactly_ what is wrong with society. You saw something that distressed you. You felt anguish and sorrow and you expressed that. It’s perfectly acceptable. In fact, it’s actually quite healthy. Maybe if more men felt free to do what you did this morning, rather than behaving like fucking aggressive macho idiots to mask it, they might not end up fucking spontaneously combusting when it all gets too much.”

Malcolm spared her the briefest of glares before returning his attention to the road. “You finished?”

“For now.”

Though he snarked, he was quietly relieved that Nicola didn’t seem to lose what respect she did have for him. Indeed, for some fucked up reason, she appeared to have gained respect for him.

This being nice to Nicola Murray was bringing him into dangerous territory; she was able to see through his swearing and threats and austerity. That terrified him. But, no matter how much the idea of Nicola seeing the parts of him he guarded from the rest of the world scared Malcolm, even he would not torment her when she was grieving – especially when it appeared she was stuck at the stage of denial.

The silence, thankfully, returned for the rest of their journey, until he pulled up across the road from Nicola’s house.

“Thank you,” she said. “For everything.”

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. Malcolm was hard pushed not to react to that. Affection and gratitude were not experiences to which he was accustomed; half the reason he thrived in his job was that he didn’t know the feeling well enough to miss it. The flip side being, as he found now, that when he did experience it, he didn’t know what to feel about it.

Nicola got out of the car in her pyjamas and trainers. She was halfway across the road when she stopped dead and shouted, “That bastard! That fucking twat!”

Malcolm’s immediate instinct was to dive out of the car, and he followed it. “What’s wrong? Nic’la?”

“He’s gone. The car’s not in the drive!” she exclaimed; Malcolm saw the tell-tale signs of one of Nicola’s infamous panic attacks – the furrowing of the brow, the fidgeting with the hands, the restlessness of the feet – and made the conscious decision to lay a hand on her shoulder. “Either he’s taken them away or-”

“Or he’s fucked off and left them in the house,” Malcolm finished for her. She looked up at him, the fear and anger evident on her face. She was both terrified and livid, because either James had taken her remaining three children away from her, or the children had all been left in the house alone, the morning after their sister died, the oldest being only twelve years of age.

He grabbed her hand and ran up to the house. The door was unlocked when he tried the handle. From inside, he heard a young girl shout, “Ben, get down from there, now!”

He pulled Nicola through the door and into the house. At the top of the stairs stood a girl of twelve who, when she caught sight of her mother, bolted down them and leapt into Nicola’s arms. “Mum! I don’t know where Dad is but Ben won’t come down from the window sill and Sophie’s still asleep. I tried to get them up for school but-”

“Calm down, sweetheart,” Nicola sighed, pressing her face into her child’s hair. “You’re not going to school today. I don’t know where your father is, but how do you feel about Granny coming over?”

Ella nodded, still clinging to her mother. “Do you have to go to work?”

Nicola glanced at Malcolm. He made no gesture of his opinion on the matter. It was entirely her decision. Whether or not he agreed with it, it was up to Nicola what she wanted to do. The choice would only be taken from her if and when she reached a point where the added stress was harming her, her department or her party.

“Yes, darling, I’m afraid I do. But I’ll be home all weekend, okay?”

This, it seemed, was enough for Ella. She smiled with some contentment and pulled away from Nicola. “Can I make some chocolate milk to have with my toast?” she asked. Malcolm resisted the urge to smirk; it was clear to see that Nicola, when at home, was easy prey for her children.

“Of course. I’m going to get your brother away from the window.”

Ella sauntered off to the kitchen, while Nicola ran up the stairs. Malcolm stood in the hallway, not really knowing what he was meant to do. This was not his home, and he felt somewhat an intruder. There was a high-pitched screech of, “No, Mummy!” from upstairs, followed by a loud threat of grounding and no TV from Nicola. “NO!” was Ben’s answer. It wasn’t long before Nicola came back down the stairs, her face in her hands, defeated by the tantrum of a six-year-old boy.

“I can’t do anything with him,” she admitted. “He’s too big to drag off the window sill now. I’d only hurt him. I’m going to phone my mum, Malcolm. She’ll come over as soon as she can.”

Malcolm only nodded. He was not going to reprimand Nicola for this mess. It was James who left the kids here with nobody to look after them. He must have known the misery it would cause. It wouldn’t have surprised Malcolm if James had done this deliberately, after Nicola called and said she was crashing with a mate; as far as he knew, James loathed parental responsibility.

He took a cautious step up the stairs, wondering if getting involved was at all wise. However, he couldn’t just stand around like a spare bollock.

When he reached the landing, there were a multitude of doors. It was big house, and it seemed every child had their own bedroom. One had Katie’s name stuck on the front. One had fairies and stars stuck to it; that was probably where Sophie lay asleep. One held Ben’s name surrounded by a mixture of _Star Wars_ , _SpongeBob SquarePants_ and _Kung Fu Panda_ stickers. One was fixed with a poster for _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_ – that had to be Ella’s.

He knocked on Ben’s door. “Go away, Mum!” he shouted.

“It’s not your mum, alright? Just open the door,” Malcolm answered through the solid wood.

“Who are you?!” he called back.

“I’m Malcolm. I’m your mum’s friend.”

The door swung open to reveal a small boy, aged about six, in his Batman pyjamas. “What do you want?” he snapped, stamping back to his window and sitting on the sill, his knees to his chest, his eyes fixed to the garden on the other side of the glass.

Malcolm followed and sat on the bedside table next to him. “Why won’t you come away from the window, wee man?” he asked, making a real effort to sound like he was a nice person. “It’s not exactly a comfy place to sit, is it?”

“I want Katie,” mumbled Ben, still staring out of the window and into the garden.

“So do your sisters. So do your mum and dad. We all wish Katie was here,” Malcolm said. “But you see up here?” he added, touching Ben’s head ever so lightly. “Up here, you’ve got everything you remember about her. What she looked like, what she smelled like, how she laughed, every cuddle she ever gave you is all up here in your head.”

Ben finally turned to look at him. “What if I forget her?”

“You won’t forget her,” Malcolm reassured him. “She was your big sister. You’ll never forget her.”

Ben swung his legs around from the bow window. “Katie’s the only one who plays football with me,” he said. “Sophie, Ella and Mum hate it. Daddy’s never here. Who’s going to play football with me? And PlayStation. Katie’s the only one who’ll play FIFA with me.”

Malcolm sighed. The boy hadn’t only lost his sister. He had lost everything he shared with his sister, and everything nobody else would do with him. Ben had tears pouring down his face, though he hastily wiped them away with a sniffle. “D’you want a hug, wee man?” asked Malcolm, against everything his logic told him. Instinct seemed to be stamping all over logic today.

Ben nodded and slid down off the window sill into Malcolm’s arms. It wasn’t often Malcolm found himself feeling anything even resembling paternal instinct, but this kid had no other man to open up to. He was only a child, who’d just lost a massive piece of his world, and there was nobody there to comfort him.

Malcolm could feel Ben’s tears soak through his shirt, but he didn’t stop the boy crying. He had a feeling Nicola wouldn’t want him to stop Ben showing his emotions truthfully, given the way she had lectured him in the car for being ashamed of his own tears.

Quiet footsteps approached on the stairs; he looked out of the open bedroom door to see Nicola advancing towards him. He half-expected outrage at his interference, but she said nothing. She only stood at the door for a moment and gave a smile tinged with sadness before turning away to Sophie’s room.

“D’you want some toast and chocolate milk?” he murmured to Ben. “I hear Ella’s making some down in the kitchen. If you’re _really_ nice, she might even make you some.”

Ben stood back and smiled, wiping away his tears. “Ella’s upset with me because I wouldn’t come downstairs with her. She was worried I’d wake Sophie up too early.”

Malcolm let out a soft laugh. “If you say you’re sorry, I’m sure she’ll forgive you.”

Ben nodded and headed for the stairs, a little more buoyant at the prospect of chocolate milk with breakfast. Just as Ben reached the ground floor, Sophie ran out of her room looking fairly happy, bouncing down the stairs in her brother’s wake; Nicola had probably used that very same promise to get her to go to breakfast.

Nicola came into Ben’s room. “How did you manage that?” she asked.

“I talked to him,” Malcolm stated. It really was simpler than Nicola seemed to think it was. “That’s all. He just needed someone to fucking talk to him.”

She gazed back at him like he was some alien species from fucking Saturn’s rings, and inched slowly towards him. He stood up, wondering if he was about to get an earful for being so blunt about her son. He was surprised, therefore, when her hands fell flat onto his chest and she stared up into his face. Her right hand lay directly over his heart; what did she gain from feeling his heartbeat? Her arms snaked around him, her head where her right hand had been.

As bizarre as this was – it was definitely not something he had ever pictured being within the realms of possibility twenty-four hours ago – he put her arms around Nicola and held her tight. “There’s so much more to you, isn’t there?” she breathed. “So much you hide, because God forbid anyone realises you’re a fucking human being.”

Malcolm let his head drop and smelled Nicola’s hair; he was met with a mixture of Dove shampoo and rainwater. She must have showered before whatever bust up she had with James in the night.

“Mum’s on her way,” Nicola told him, her voice muffled by his chest. “She’ll be about twenty minutes.”

“Go and get dressed,” he ordered her. “I’ll go down and watch the pack of fucking wolf puppies you’re raising.”

She smacked his back lightly and stepped away to her own bedroom, leaving him to wander downstairs to the kitchen. He caught Ella and Ben’s conversation at the door. “He’s much nicer than Mum always says he is,” Ben said. “Not scary at all, really.”

“Mum’s not _scared_ of him,” Ella replied. “Not anymore. Now, he just annoys her.”

“’Fucking scrawny Scottish fucking twat-faced cunt!’” they all imitated their mother gleefully. Three kids, six, nine and twelve years of age, all able to curse like sailors after a ten-hour shift in the pub because their mother couldn't help but rant about Malcolm Tucker.

Malcolm had to fight back laughter. It wasn’t the first time a child had done that and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. He was constantly getting a mountain of shit from his sister because his niece found it hilarious to swear like Uncle Malcolm. Those phone calls usually consisted of Malcolm taking the bollocking in silence while trying not to piss himself laughing.

He walked into the kitchen without letting them know he had heard them. Instead, he set about wiping up the milk spilt on the table between the kids, and said, “Who’s for more toast?”

“Me!” they shouted in unison.


	5. Victoria

Nicola’s mother did not knock on the front door or ring the doorbell. She walked straight in; Malcolm, thinking it could have been James, had strode to the door with the most threatening expression her could muster. But he was met not by James Murray, but by a woman in her late sixties. “Ah, you must be Malcolm. I’m Victoria, Nicola’s mother,” she smiled, holding out her hand. He shook it, though he was slightly confused by how such an obviously confident and able woman managed to raise such an insecure and nervous daughter. “Nicola told me you were watching the children while she gets dressed. Any word from James?”

“No,” answered Malcolm. He did his best to keep his tone neutral, but it betrayed his infuriation all the same. “Not a peep.”

“Probably the best thing for him,” Victoria said, pulling her coat off. Malcolm helped her out of it and hung it up for her while she added, “I’ll have that bastard’s balls for earrings and his cock on a fucking necklace when I get my hands on him.”

Stunned, Malcolm could only drop all pretence that he wasn’t as foul-mouthed as she obviously was. “I could thump the bastard,” admitted Malcolm. “Who the fuck leaves three kids on their own after driving their mother out of the house? And the state he had Nic’la in…”

“Yes, what exactly happened last night?” Victoria rounded on him, expecting him to have all the answers. “Nicola told me she walked out and you let her stay in your spare room. She didn’t say why she walked out, though.”

“She wouldn’t fucking tell me,” sighed Malcolm. “All I got was she had some sort of fight with James. She called me, told me where she was and I picked her up. She slept in my spare room and I took her here this morning.”

“How is she?”

“She’s Nicola,” Malcolm stated bluntly. “She’s the same massive bullet of fucking anxiety and self-doubt she always is, ricocheting fucking aimlessly off the walls.”

Victoria arched an eyebrow at him. “You know her.”

“I spend half my life trying to make sure she doesn’t help make the Government of Great Britain and Northern Ireland look too big a fuck up,” replied Malcolm. “Of course I know her.”

“Is she coping?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “I don’t think she’s accepted it. She’s not really said anything about it at all.”

Victoria sighed and put her face in her hands. “I knew this would happen,” she said through her fingers. “Nicola always goes into denial when she can’t face something. She did the same thing when her father died.” So, Nicola had form for this. At least it wasn’t all in Malcolm’s head. “Where is she?”

“Upstairs, getting ready for work,” Malcolm said.

“Work?”

“She insisted. I tried to talk her out of it but she wasn’t fucking having it. She says she needs to keep to a routine.”

Victoria didn’t seem at all surprised by this. Now that he really thought on it, Malcolm realised it should never have surprised him, either. Breaks in the normal way of things sent Nicola Murray flailing; he witnessed that on a weekly basis. Probably even more frequently than that. Therefore, it was no big shock that Nicola chose to keep the one habitual thing she had left to her – walking in DoSAC and taking on the political shit storm, even if she usually had a hand in causing the shit storm in the first place.

“Would you mind watching the children for just a few more minutes, Malcolm? I’d like the opportunity to talk to Nicola before she fucks off to work. I’m beginning to fear there’s more to what’s going on with her than she’s letting on,” Victoria explained.

Malcolm didn’t hesitate. “’Course. I’ll put a DVD on for them.”

“Good luck getting them to agree on one,” Victoria snorted as she made her way up the stairs.

And how right she was. After much arguing, with Ben determined to watch _Shark Tale_ , Sophie howling that she wanted to watch _The Incredibles_ , and Ella telling them they were babies and demanding either _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ or _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_ , Malcolm finally shouted above them, “Enough!”

They all fell still and silent, DVDs in their hands. He went over to the shelf and pulled out two of the DVDs. “ _Shrek_ or _Monsters Inc_. Pick one.” Ella, Sophie and Ben glanced at one another for just a moment, and burst out laughing. “What’s so funny?!”

It was Sophie who managed to reign in her hysterical laughter first. “Mummy calls you Shrek ‘cause you’re Scottish and you shout a lot,” she said, her voice still cracking with the urge to laugh. Ella elbowed Sophie in the ribs with a warning look, but it was far too late for that.

“ _Shrek_ it is, then,” he answered, refusing to flinch at the news Nicola had nicknamed him after a giant green ogre. They scattered to the sofas while he put the DVD on. Once it was playing, he pulled the blanket down off the back of the sofa and threw it over Ella and Ben. “This house is bloody freezing,” he muttered. He sat down next to Sophie on the other sofa and pulled another blanket over them.

It was almost half past eight before Nicola made to the living room, Victoria not far behind her. “Right, time for work, Malcolm,” Nicola ordered him. “You look far too comfortable over there.”

Somewhere in the last forty minutes, his body had relaxed under the weight and warmth of the soft blanket, with Sophie resting her head against his arm as she laughed at Shrek and Donkey’s antics. Nicola reached down to each of her children for a kiss goodbye and an “I love you.” Malcolm decided to sit on his arse under the blanket until she was finished.

But before he got out of the house, with Nicola already in his car, Victoria caught him by the arm. “Thank you for looking after my daughter and grandchildren,” she said. “I do think Nicola is too harsh on you.”

“I think I earn it,” he answered with a smirk.

Victoria looked up at him. There was something in her eyes he did not like at all. It wasn’t the grief he had found in everyone’s eyes this morning. It looked more like fear. “Malcolm, please keep an eye on Nicola?”

“Did you find out what happened last night?” he asked. There was more to Victoria’s request than her worry about Nicola’s approach to the grieving process. He knew it. It weighed more than that as it lingered in the air.

“It’s not my place to tell you,” Victoria said. “I daresay Nicola will end up telling you, but it’s her decision to make, not mine. I won’t go behind her back.”

Malcolm stared at Victoria. He saw where Nicola’s eyes and nose came from. Her thick hair, too. She really did look like her mother. “At least tell me if she’s alright?” he asked. Frightened by the very real concern in his own voice, he added, “’Cause, you know, I’d rather know what level on the Nicola Murray Scale of Fucking Insanity I’m dealing with today.”

“She’ll be okay until she’s not,” Victoria said, like it was the simplest thing on the planet.

“Oh, very fucking helpful,” he grumbled. “Fucking profound, that is.”

Victoria did not buckle under glare or his bad language. He didn’t even know why he expected her to, since one of the first things she had said to him was that she was going to chop off James’ manhood and have it for fucking jewellery. No, Victoria held his stare, as steely and as bloody-minded as his own, but she allowed room for a softness for which Malcolm would never be able to create a space.

“Just make me a promise, Malcolm. Promise me that when she does tell you, you’ll be kind. That you won’t scare her. I don’t pretend to understand the relationship between the two of you – it’s so absurd and fucking backwards, I probably never will understand it – but you’ve reached out to help her. Please, don’t scare her, and don’t abandon her. I don’t know if she could take it.”

Malcolm tried to decipher her words, but he didn’t get very far. Instead, he promised her, “All I can do is promise I’ll try my fucking best with her, okay? I don’t know if you’ve noticed but she’s not the fucking easiest person to get through to.”

“I did raise her. She was the same even as a child,” Victoria said. “It got worse when she married James, though. He brings out the worst in her.”

“I’d gathered that, funnily enough,” he agreed. “Right, I’d better get on. Her Highness awaits her chauffeur,” he grinned with a nod in the direction of the front door.

He shook Victoria’s hand again and left; when he got in the car, Nicola was eyeing him with distrust. “What were you two talking about?” she demanded as he put his seatbelt on and started the car.

He held on to his answer for a brief time, though perhaps a few more minutes passed than he had realised, because Nicola’s glare only became more severe. “Your mum’s worried about you,” he admitted. “She’s bound to be.”

“What did she tell you?”

“Nothing,” he said truthfully. “Whatever conversation you two had upstairs, she wasn’t fucking telling me about it. Said it’s not her place to tell me.” He stopped at the lights and turned to Nicola. “You know, Nic’la, if you do want to tell me anything, you can. I’m not gonna be fucking cruel. Not about things like this. ‘Course, when you fuck up at DoSAC you’ll still get a bollocking like the rest of them, but when it comes to this, to Katie, and James, and the kids, I won’t be a fucking ogre about it.”

He pulled off again when the light turned green, having said all he had it in him to say to her, and he waited for her to cotton on to his last remark. “FUCK!” Nicola shouted. “They fucking told you!”

Malcolm smirked. “Of course they fucking told me. They’re just kids. They’ve got no filter.” She threw her head back, her hands in her hair. “Sophie caved first.”

“Fucking kids,” Nicola moaned.

Malcolm laughed. She was as dramatic as any teenager, and as wound up as any pensioner. And, she probably always would be. He found only now that he wouldn’t change her for the world. She was mad, ditzy, anxious, emotional, and whoever wired her brain was obviously fucking colour-blind…but she was also inherently loving and caring, had a strength he had never before witnessed, and she was far more intelligent than her madcap behaviour allowed the world to see. She had even managed to care enough about Malcolm Tucker to comfort him, for Christ’s sake.

When they eventually did get to DoSAC, Olly, Glenn, Terri and Robyn watched them walk into the office, staring at Malcolm and Nicola like they had ten heads apiece. Nicola said nothing, and dashed to her own office. Malcolm stayed. “Look, I know you probably all think she shouldn’t be here, but it’s her fucking decision. As much as I’d love to, I can’t go to the Prime Minister and tell him Nicola isn’t fit to make her own decisions about her own fucking life,” he told them all. Glenn opened his mouth to argue, but Malcolm held up a finger to stop him, and he pressed on, “However, if Nicola’s behaviour deteriorates, if she gets so fucking upset she can’t get herself together, you call me, okay?”

“She looks knackered, Malcolm,” Glenn said.

“I have to agree with Glenn,” Terri said, voicing her opinion as fucking usual. “She needs rest and care, Malcolm.”

“She’s got three kids and a fucking cunt of a husband at home,” snapped Malcolm. “She’s more likely to get rest and care here than she is at home.”

“But she’s bad enough when she’s fine,” Olly countered. “She’ll be-”

“She’ll be okay until she’s not,” Malcolm echoed Victoria. “And when she’s not, you’ll call me and we can deal with it then. If she’s behaving like she can cope, then she has every right to be here.”

Olly, Glenn, Terri and Robyn glanced at one another, looking bewildered. “Alright, Malcolm,” sighed Glenn. “We’ll keep an eye on her. If and when it all starts going to shit, we’ll call you over here.”

“Good man,” Malcolm said. “Now, I have to get back to Number 10 before the place fucking eats itself from the inside out.”

He walked away without going to see Nicola. It was a given now, surely, that she could call him. And besides, she’d probably had more than enough of his presence already today, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet.

His phone rang; it was the Prime Minister, presumably wondering where the fuck he was. “I’m on my way,” he greeted the Prime Minister. He almost wished he could stay at DoSAC for the day. Almost.


	6. Nurofen

Malcolm, at two in the afternoon, slammed a sandwich, packet of crisps and bottle of water down on Nicola’s desk. “Lunch,” he told her. He turned his back on her, heading for the door.

“What the fuck’s up with you?” she asked.

He didn’t answer, but he did stop his exit from her office.

The truth was something he didn’t want to share. The Prime Minister had given him a bollocking for being seen taking Nicola to work. He had calmed down once convinced there was nothing between Nicola and Malcolm, their slightly mental friendship discounted. That hadn’t bothered him all that much.

Then, Julius Nicholson had informed him of how insensitive it looked to have Nicola working today, to which Malcolm had to argue that if the press discovered any hint of Nicola being forced to take leave, the reaction might be much worse. The only thing that bothered him there was that if Nicola were a Nicholas, the choice may not have been so heavily scrutinised.

These conflicts, however, were almost welcome.

When he was left for more than about a minute with nothing to fight for, his mind forced him to access the things he’d rather not revisit.

He would rather not have to fight back the image of Katie’s dead, white face and the tears that came with it.

He would rather not be worrying about whatever Victoria had dragged out of Nicola this morning.

He would rather not wonder what would become of Ella, Sophie and Ben.

He would rather not feel the intense rage he felt towards James.

But he would rather this than leave Nicola to break. That, he reminded himself, might be a recipe for disaster. If she were to resign, the entire government might fall. It would be the first domino to tumble in a line that was much shorter than he would have liked.

“Malcolm?”

He turned around to face her.

“What happened last night, Nic’la?” he asked. He had to know. Whatever it was, he needed to know, if only to settle his own mind. “Why did you run away?”

Nicola opened her mouth and closed it again; without a word, she stalked past him. “Nicola!” he called after her, but she did not turn or stop. She went in the direction of the stairs, as she always did when she wanted to get away. Malcolm knew if she wasn’t claustrophobic, she’d have been in the lift and out the door in under a minute.

Terri looked up at him from her desk, her stare full of accusation. “What did you say?”

“Nothing! I didn’t say fucking anything,” he said. It wasn’t even a lie. He hadn’t said anything to warrant her walking out on them all. “What’s she been like?”

“Normal,” replied Olly. “Well, as normal as Nicola ever is. It’s fucking scary, really.”

“It’s a self-preservation mechanism,” Glenn piped up. “It’s like she’s ignoring the fact it happened at all, and she’s expecting us to do the same.”

“Then you do it,” Malcolm said. “It’s really that fucking simple. You don’t cause her more distress.”

“But she’s not showing _any_ distress, Malcolm,” Terri explained in earnest. “It’s like yesterday didn’t happen. Olly’s right. It’s scary. She’s lost her daughter and she’s not reacting to it at all.”

Malcolm pinched the bridge of his nose. They were right. Of course they fucking were; watching a grieving mother behave like nothing was wrong was incredibly unnerving. People were taught to expect someone to shatter when something like this happened, and, indeed, many did shatter, temporarily at least. He could see why it frightened them. For someone as emotional and brittle as Nicola to have this bounce off her wasn’t normal at all.

Olly added, “She _is_ taking painkillers. Nurofen, and more than she probably should take. I think she’s getting headaches, but apart from that, she’s just being her normal self. Batshit crazy, obviously, but not any more batty, shitty or crazy than usual.”

Malcolm went back into Nicola’s office and opened her desk drawer. There was indeed a box of Nurofen there, all but four in the pack gone. He couldn’t really say if she had taken too much – he didn’t even know how long ago she opened the packet. He shut the drawer and returned to Olly. “How many have you _seen_ her take today?”

“Six.”

“In under five hours?!” he half-shouted, a little alarmed by it. He had expected she might have taken two doses in less than five hours instead of the normal one, but three doses was worrying. “Why didn’t you fucking stop her, Olly?!”

“She’s a grown woman, Malcolm!” Olly reminded him. “What was I meant to do, wrestle them out of her hands?!”

Infuriated, Malcolm stormed out of the office, following Nicola’s path to the stairs. He found her on the sixth floor landing, looking over the barrier to the atrium below. “Don’t you get any fucking ideas,” Malcolm growled at her, pulling her by the waist away from his own perceived danger. She flinched, and did her best to conceal it. “How many fucking painkillers have you had today?” he hissed, so that nobody could hear him.

“Since I got up?” she asked. “Eight.”

“ _Eight_?!” he snarled. “Nic’la, you’re only meant to take six in one day! You’ve taken eight in, what? Seven hours?!” She, for a fleeting moment, looked frightened, but the expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “If your head was that sore, why didn’t you fucking say something?”

Nicola returned her gaze to the atrium below, leaning against the wooden barrier. “It’s not my head,” she told him.

“Then what is it? You can’t take ibuprofen like that, Nic’la. It’ll fucking wreck your stomach!”

Her hand drifted to her back and her left hip, before returning to support her stance against the barrier. “Sore back?” he asked. “C’mon, Nic’la, you know if your back is that fucking painful, you go to the doctor.”

“I don’t have fucking backache,” she snapped. Malcolm drew his head back slightly, unnerved by the anger and defensiveness in her retort. He said nothing, but pressed the tips of his fingers lightly into the left side of Nicola’s back. She inhaled sharply through her teeth, her face screwed up in what was obviously considerable pain. “Fuck off, Malcolm!” she said, her voice a little too loud; she batted his hand away fiercely.

The pieces slotted into place inside of a single moment.

She had fled from that house last night, so disoriented that she had walked for miles without the first fucking clue where she was going. Victoria had told him not to frighten her daughter. Nicola had implored Malcolm not to send her back to James. She was knocking back painkillers like they were going out of fashion. She was going to almost painful lengths to pretend it was all fine, despite yesterday and the early hours of this morning being filled with trauma.

“Did he fucking hit you?!” Malcolm asked, extremely careful not to be heard.

“Fucking calm down!” Nicola barked. “It’s not the end of the world.”

“Not the end-” he began, but words failed him.

It wasn’t often Malcolm Tucker couldn’t find the most appropriate words to convey his level of displeasure and disapproval, but this was one of those occasions. There was no way Nicola could be this calm about it; she was, after all, very rarely calm at the best of times.

“Mum checked it this morning,” Nicola mumbled. “It’s just a bit of bruising.”

“That’s not the fucking point!”

Relenting to his own need to find out exactly what happened, he pulled Nicola by the hand into the nearest empty conference room. He went to lock the door, and then remembered Nicola was claustrophobic and it would probably do nothing but freak her out. “What the fucking hell happened?!” he asked, not caring to keep his voice to a whisper now they were in a confined space.

“He was drunk, and he snapped under the pressure of everything, that’s all,” Nicola said, looking down at the floor.

Malcolm stepped towards her, lifting her head by the chin so that she had no choice but to look him in the eye. “You’re lying,” he told her. “Tell me the truth, Nic’la.”

It wasn’t an order or a request. It was a plea made with Malcolm’s own voice, without anger veiling his concern. Perhaps that was why Nicola obeyed him.

“I got the kids to bed at about eleven,” Nicola murmured. “He’d been drinking ever since he got them home from school. Didn’t even fucking feed them. Anyway, I got them to bed, and he turned. He blames me, Malcolm,” she admitted. “I gave her the money and permission to go to the cinema with Molly yesterday. It was an inset day, and there was no point in leaving Katie bored in the house while the rest of them went to school, so I told her to go out and have some fun, but to behave herself. He went mad at me. Threw me against the door. Threw me against the wall. Threw me on the floor, kicked me in the ribs and the hips. He might’ve been pissed but he was careful enough not to leave a mark where someone might see it. As soon as we ended up at the front door, I grabbed my trainers and phone, and I ran. I didn’t know what else to do, Malcolm.”

Malcolm didn’t speak. He feared that if he did speak, he might let her see his rage, and he didn’t want her to see it.

“And I feel awful,” Nicola added. “I left the children there, knowing he was drunk. I knew he wouldn’t deliberately harm them – it was me he wanted to kick the shit into – but he wasn’t fit to look after them, either. I mean, look what happened. He walked out and left them on their own for fuck knows how long!”

“Don’t you dare,” Malcolm said. “You were fucking terrified. You needed to get the fuck out of there.”

Nicola fell into a chair, her head in her hands, leaning over the table in the middle of the room. “Do you know how much effort it’s been today, not letting anyone see? Not letting my children – or you – see I was in pain every time I hugged them? And you, when I hugged you this morning, I literally bit my tongue to stop myself swearing. I needed a hug but it was fucking painful,” she rambled. “The Nurofen is taking the edge off it so I can function.”

“But you can’t take any more of it, Nic’la,” Malcolm sighed. “You could end up with fucking stomach ulcers.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to interfere in your marriage,” Malcolm said, knowing exactly how this would sound, “but you need to fucking leave him.”

“I know.”

“But Nic’la?”

She finally looked up at him. “What?”

“I’m on your side, okay?”

The shadow of a smile crept onto her face, so much darker than Malcolm wished she could manage. “I know.”

Malcolm, against everything he told the world he was, sat down in the chair next to Nicola and took her hand in his. When did he start caring about what happened to her? Yes, he had always cared what happened to her, but only on the wish to keep her steady enough to run the department. It hadn’t been genuine concern, beyond that, had it?

But now, faced with the very real idea that Nicola was both grief-stricken and in danger, he was angry. He wanted to wave a magic wand and make it disappear, and it wasn’t so he wouldn’t have to deal with the fallout. No, it was Nicola’s pain he wanted to be able to wish away. He didn’t want her to have to endure what was surely unendurable. It wasn’t the department or the government he found himself needing to keep afloat. It was Nicola Murray.

And this was the real Nicola Murray.

Nicola Murray only took meltdowns over relatively minor things. When the truly important things went to shit, when her family was crumbling, her marriage had turned into something from her fucking nightmares, and her world was burning at her feet, she was stronger than Malcolm could ever have imagined she was capable of. She remained…well, not calm. Nicola’s waters were never genuinely still. But she did not lose her head.

It was bizarre that she could flail around over a speech or a debate gone wrong, but could manage this situation with such composure.

But Malcolm knew Nicola. He knew that to retain this composure, she had to be kicking like fuck to keep her head above the water, and he knew that it would, eventually, exhaust her, and she would fall to pieces. She was not invincible, and he had long since learned to stop expecting her to be. She was not, and nor was any other person on this Earth, infallible.

Even he was not infallible, as proven by his fucking inability to wipe the horror of identifying Katie’s body from his memory.

Nicola stood up, and so did he. “Can I see?” Malcolm asked, quietly. “Can I see how bad it is?”

She huffed slightly, but she pulled up her top to reveal as mass of purple, almost black, around her abdomen and ribs. She turned, leaving Malcolm horrified that it extended most of the way up her back. She pulled down the top of her skirt, baring her hips, and the massive amount of bruising there too.

Malcolm, with some hesitation, reached out and trailed his fingers along the damage, lifting her top again and touching her side. Nicola did not wince or complain. No, as with the rest of today, she held her nerve. Only her eyes betrayed her pain. She tried to smile, and he had to wonder what story his eyes were telling – she was trying to make him feel better.

“It’ll be fine,” Nicola assured him. “Mum’s a retired A&E doctor. She knows what she’s talking about.” She tucked her top back into her skirt and stared up at him, like she was waiting for something. “Where’s the explosion, Malcolm? Where’s the shouting and swearing and telling me I should have fucking defended myself?”

“That’s not me,” he replied. “None of this – Katie, James, taking a fucking beating – is your fucking fault. Do you fucking hear me?!” he demanded urgently.

“Well, there’s the shouting and swearing, at least.”

Was it a comfort to Nicola to see him behave normally? To hear him curse and swear and roar?

Of course it was, he realised. It meant he wasn’t treating her any differently. She didn’t want to be treated with kid gloves. “C’mon,” he said. “Back to fucking work. And you’d better eat your lunch or so help me, I’ll make it into a smoothie and pour it down your fucking throat through a petrol funnel.”

Nicola smiled and opened the door, gesturing for him to lead the way.


	7. Rescue Remedy

“Malcolm,” Nicola caught up with him before he got to the lift and pressed the button to call it. It was six o’clock, he’d had a shit day, and he wanted to go home. He resisted the temptation to turn around and ask what she’d fucked up this time. He chose, instead, to face her and say nothing. “My mum, she’s invited you for dinner tonight. To say thank you for last night, and for looking after my children this morning. And she’s a better cook than me, so it’ll be edible.”

Malcolm stood completely still. That was not what he was expecting.

He was not accustomed to kindness. It was strange, the way Victoria reacted to him being there this morning. She didn’t seem suspicious, or even puzzled. She had simply accepted his presence and welcomed his assistance. What exactly had Nicola told Victoria?

He was cautious of benevolence, so often used as a guise for more sinister intentions, but this seemed genuine. Victoria seemed a candid and blunt person.

“Uh, yeah,” he answered, though still hesitant. “Yeah, okay. What time?”

“Half past seven?” she said.

“Okay. I’ll go home and get changed,” he replied. He stepped into the lift, partly so Nicola couldn’t follow him. He didn’t want to let her know how alien this was to him. She might see that, to him, something as simple as being invited for dinner in thanks for helping out actually meant a great deal. And that would surely be a fucking disaster.

But, despite his misgivings about the magnitude of such a simple gesture, he parked outside Nicola’s house at half past seven, having changed out of his work suit and into a fleece and jeans. He knocked on the door, to be greeted by Ella. “Hi, Malcolm!” she smiled, opening the door wide for him. “Granny said dinner won’t be ‘til eight now, but come in anyway. We didn’t have any onion rings and Granny made Mum go out for them. She’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

Malcolm said, “What’s for tea that so desperately needs onion rings?”

“Granny’s making her burgers but Ben won’t eat them without onion rings,” Ella explained with a roll of her eyes. “Come into the kitchen with us!”

Malcolm followed the child; in the kitchen, Ben and Sophie were sitting at the breakfast table with a Nintendo DS while their grandmother cooked. “Anything I can help with?” he asked Victoria, feeling slightly awkward about watching his meal being made for him.

She turned, her hands still in a bowl of mince, onions and herbs, and smiled at him. “No, thanks, Malcolm. All under control.”

There was nothing else to do but sit down, so he did. He watched as Sophie, Ben and Ella took turns at _MarioKart_. Ben was surprisingly good at it. Ella, not so much. But Sophie had the pair of them beat by a mile.

James, it seemed, had not resurfaced. Malcolm’s best guess was that he was tormenting some poor friend or relative, though he was not sorry. If the man was capable of harming his wife once, he was more than capable of doing it again. He resolved to let Victoria know that Nicola had told him the truth, whenever he got the chance.

The front door opened and closed, and Nicola came through with a bag of frozen onion rings. “I don’t know why you insist on these things, Ben,” she sighed, handing Victoria the bag. “But if it’s what you like, then who are we to judge?” she smiled, ruffling her son’s dark hair as she passed him.

“Thanks, Mummy!” Ben said. It was amazing how something as simple as a bag of frozen onion rings was enough to thrill a child.

Nicola did not offer to help her mother; Malcolm got the impression that when Victoria was cooking, the kitchen was very much hers and nobody else’s. The only thing Victoria permitted them to do was set the dining table in the next room, and take the salt, pepper, ketchup and bottles of fizzy juice through.

They set the table in silence. He didn’t quite know what to say to Nicola. This, after all, was not a situation with which he was familiar. He felt somewhat an intruder in her home while he was not being put to a use, like he had been this morning.

Malcolm heard the front door open and close again. Nicola drained white.

“Ben! Sophie! Ella!” called a man’s voice, footsteps drawing near. He was in the kitchen. “Come on, you’re coming with me. Go upstairs, Ella, and grab some clothes for you and your brother and sister.”

“James, no!” Victoria interrupted, her tone uncompromising. “You are not taking the children away.”

“You want a fucking bet?” he snarled.

Malcolm stared at Nicola, trying to plead with her not to intervene without saying anything. She didn’t get the message. He was close at her heels when she got to the kitchen. “They’re staying here, James. This is their home,” she said. “And get the fuck away from my mum.”

James backed away from Victoria and advanced on Nicola. “What, leave them here so you can get them fucking killed as well?” he spat. He was drunk. It was obvious.

“James, get a grip!” shouted Nicola. “None of this is anyone’s fault! You’re drunk, and you’re upset, I know that! But you _cannot_ take our children from their home and their mother!”

James took a step towards Nicola, his expression livid. Victoria moved faster than anyone else in the room, standing between her daughter and her son-in-law before Malcolm had the opportunity to process what was the best thing for him to do here. James, with nothing but hatred on his face, took Victoria by the shoulders and threw her to the floor. Malcolm jumped around Nicola and knelt at Victoria’s side, trying to help her sit up.

“You okay?” he asked her.

“I’m fine, Malcolm. I’m fine. It was just a-”

“Get off her!” yelled Ella.

“James, stop!” Nicola cried.

“Mummy!” screamed Sophie.

“Please, no, don’t, James, please,” begged Nicola.

When Malcolm looked up, Ella had leapt out of her chair, and Nicola and James were no longer in the room. He helped Victoria to her feet and sat her down on a chair. “Stay with your Granny!” he ordered Ben and Sophie. They didn’t dare disobey.

“Help!” Ella screeched. “No, Dad, I don’t-”

“You’re coming with me, Ella!” shouted James. “No fucking arguments!”

When Malcolm got to the hallway, James was pulling Ella to the front door. Malcolm ran down the hall, and tried to pull Ella out of James’ grasp. Though he was drunk, James was still fairly strong. There was only one thing Malcolm could do. He bent down and lifted Ella, carrying her through the air, and set her down where Malcolm stood between her and her father. She didn’t need told to run to the kitchen and shut the door.

Malcolm wrestled James against the front door. “Get the fuck out of here,” he roared, as he fumbled for the door handle. He found it, and he threw James out the door. With the door locked and bolted, he exhaled, hoping it was enough to keep James at bay for now.

He ran back to the kitchen, to find Victoria standing with all three of her grandchildren huddled in her arms. The four of them were in tears.

Malcolm froze. “Where’s Nicola?”

“Cupboard,” Ella wept. “Dad put her in the cupboard under the stairs.”

Fuck. In the hallway, the cupboard under the stairs was bolted, the sounds of scratching, choking and hyperventilating coming from inside. That utter bastard.

Malcolm unbolted the door, and Nicola stumbled out of it.

It quickly became obvious that she could not stand, so Malcolm helped her down onto the floor. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “Breathe. Come on, in and out,” he said, his arm around Nicola’s shoulders. He looked up at Victoria. She nodded at him and guided the children away from the scene, asking them to tidy their game away and go to the dinner table.

“I thought I was going to fucking die in there,” Nicola told him, still breathless. “He knows-”

“I know,” Malcolm said. “I know he knows. He wouldn’t have fucking done it if he didn’t know it would do this to you.”

Victoria came to them with a small bottle in her hand. Rescue Remedy. Nicola took it, but her hands were still shaking too violently to manage to spray it; Malcolm took her hand in his, helping her to keep her hand still enough to spray the stuff into her mouth. Their hands lowered together, and Nicola’s breathing soon became steadier. “Are you hurt?” he asked her.

“No,” she said.

Going by the smell coming from the kitchen, Victoria had not abandoned her meal plans. Victoria, Malcolm reckoned, was the one from whom Nicola had inherited her intense need to keep to what was already planned in the face of crisis.

He helped Nicola to her feet, pushed her hair back into a relatively tidy position and said, “Go and get your dinner. I’ll be through in a minute.”

She nodded, clearly not up for much in the way of talking. Malcolm, once Nicola was out of sight, went to close the cupboard door over, but stopped in his tracks. The inside of the door was marred with deep scars where Nicola’s fingernails had ripped through the paint and scored the wood. He couldn’t even imagine the fear she had to have experienced in there. He had mocked her for her claustrophobia before, of course, but he would never have even thought of doing that to her. It was a mindlessly cruel thing to do. Even he did not have the capacity for brutality that would have allowed him to turn a person’s greatest fear, a phobia, on them. To lock a claustrophobe in a small cupboard was below the belt. It was a disgusting, underhanded form of abuse.

It was the children who kept the adults’ spirits up as they ate. They were as shaken as any of the adults, but children were far more resilient. They were able to move past it, to accept it as something that had happened and focus on the present, at least for now. No doubt Nicola and Victoria were going to be subjected to some very painful discussions with Ella, Sophie and Ben later on.

By half past nine, they had all eaten and cleared away the debris. Victoria volunteered to take the children upstairs to watch a movie in Ella’s room before the kids went to bed. Malcolm and Nicola retired to the living room.

“I’m sorry,” murmured Nicola. “You came here on our invitation and-”

“Are you the one who burst in the house, knocked your mother-in-law to the fucking ground, locked your claustrophobic wife in a cupboard, and tried to drag your fucking twelve-year-old daughter out of her home without her consent?” he said. Nicola didn’t answer, but her face answered for her. “No. So don’t you fucking apologise because your bastard of a husband behaved like an animal.”

Nicola stared at him for a moment before the inevitable happened. She let out a harsh sob, the kind that tore through the body like a fucking rusty hacksaw, and put her hand over her mouth. This was not the kind of crying Nicola did when she fucked up at work, or things just didn’t go her own way. This was the crying that was sheer grief and fear. The crying that could not be stopped, that took control of the body until it swayed.

And when she did sway, Malcolm put his arms around her and held her to his chest. She pulled her legs up onto the sofa and sat there, her body halfway sprawled over his, howling and weeping with no control over when it might end. There was nothing he could do to stop her crying. All he could do was be some kind of a comfort.

As he sat with Nicola across his chest, he stroked her hair and took her hand in his. For the first time, he was able to pick out one thing that he felt for Nicola above all the others: affection.

Normally, he felt a blizzard of emotions for Nicola, because her behaviour was so erratic that his emotions struggled to keep up. It was generally a storm of infuriation at her incredible ability to make a fucking mess of the simplest task, resignation to the fact she probably will never really change, concern for her sanity, the fear of whatever she was going to fuck up next, and a curious fondness for the sheer humanity of her.

But today, he had learned what Nicola really was. Frightened but fierce. Inept but determined. Shaken but strong. Where he had before only seen her weaknesses, today he had seen her greatest strengths. She was still a mountain of fucking defects, but they were evened out by her ability to survive. He wasn’t so sure he would have made it through today if he were in her shoes. In fact, he was quite sure that by lunchtime, he’d have had one too many drams and passed out on his sofa. He wouldn’t have gone to work. He wouldn’t have put on a brave face.

And tonight, if he had been attacked, if he had almost lost a second child in two days, if he had been a claustrophobe locked in a cupboard, he could never have stood up and had dinner with his family like Nicola had. She had held it together for her children. She had done what the best of mothers did.

He could not have equalled her bravery.


	8. The Two Nicola Murrays

Victoria, at just after eleven o’clock, walked into the living room. Nicola had fallen asleep on top of Malcolm about half an hour ago, and he didn’t have the heart to wake her up. She was knackered, sore and traumatised; this was probably the first real rest she had found in the past two days.

“That’s the children in bed,” Victoria said; she sat down on the other sofa and gave her slumbering daughter a look that consisted of great love and concern, but also the frustration that came to everyone who got to know Nicola Murray. “And I’m calling a locksmith first thing in the morning,” she added. “I’m not taking any risks with that bastard.”

“Has he done anything like this before?” Malcom asked, keeping his tone low and restrained for fear of letting Victoria see how much James had enraged him.

“Not that I know of,” Victoria sighed. “He’s got her self-esteem in the fucking toilet, though,” she nodded at Nicola. “Has done for fucking years. Ever since Katie was born, really.”

It didn’t surprise Malcolm. Not anymore.

Nicola squirmed into a more comfortable position, which involved her arms wrapping around him and her head nestling under his chin. Malcolm suspected it would have been easier to detach a fucking limpet from its rock than to detach Nicola from his body right now. She was in no way at peace; her vice-like grip on him was enough to convince him that she did not feel safe.

There was a simple beauty about Nicola. She wasn’t dazzlingly gorgeous, but she was pretty. Her face had a kindness about it that made her more beautiful than most women he’d come across. Though utterly plain, she was, Malcolm now saw as he pushed her hair behind her ear and out of her mouth, beautiful.

“You don’t hate her anymore,” Victoria observed.

“I never did fucking hate her,” he admitted. “There are very few people I genuinely hate. She drives me up a fucking tree, but I don’t hate her.”

Victoria smiled, and there was a sense of understanding there that he did not like at all. “Malcolm, I have to go home. I asked my neighbour to feed the dog and let her out but I can’t leave her overnight.”

“’Course,” he said. “I’ve got to make the Prime Minister seem halfway fucking intelligent in ten hours’ time,” he remembered suddenly. “I probably should go home too.”

Victoria opened her mouth and closed it again, just as Nicola had done today. Nicola was more like her mother than Malcolm had ever thought she could be. “Could you stay?” Victoria asked. “James still has a key and I’d feel more comfortable with someone here.”

Malcolm closed his eyes. How did he become this involved in Nicola Murray’s fucking dustbin fire of a life?

He had cared. One moment of caring had brought him here.

But Victoria, of course, was right. After James’ attacks tonight and last night, there could be no possibility of Nicola being left in a situation where James got into the house with nobody to stand between them. James was physically far stronger than Nicola, and he was angry with her; he was under the influence and he wasn’t capable of rational thought. There was no way Malcolm could leave her here on her own. There was no way he could put those children at risk, either.

“Alright,” he said. “Alright, I’ll stay here until you get the fucking locks changed.”

“Thank you,” Victoria sincerely said. She stood up and shook Nicola awake; Nicola stirred, her face groggy. “Nicola, sweetheart, I’m going home. I’ve got to see to Holly. The kids are all in bed, sound asleep, and Malcolm’s going to stay here with you, okay?”

Nicola nodded. “Okay,” she mumbled. “Thanks for today, Mum. I’d be lost without you.”

“I’ll be back in time for you and Malcolm heading off to work,” promised Victoria. She stroked her daughter’s face, smiling down at her like she was the most amazing thing Victoria had ever laid eyes upon. “I love you,” she said.

“I love you too, Mum.”

Victoria quietly made her way out the door. He heard her car door slam and the engine start up. She pulled out of the drive and Malcolm found himself left utterly alone with Nicola.

“Come on, Nic’la,” Malcolm said to Nicola, “bedtime.”

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” she muttered. “Mum’s just being fucking paranoid.”

“She’s not fucking paranoid,” Malcolm retorted. “She’s trying to protect you, and after tonight, I’d say you fucking need it. That man’s got less sanity about him than George the fucking Third.”

There was a loud bang outside; Nicola leapt to her feet in fright, Malcolm standing up beside her. “It’s okay. It’s just next door slamming their front door too fucking hard,” he assured her. He took her by the hand to her own front door and slid the bolt over. “Look, it’s locked and bolted. Even if he still has the key, he can’t get in unless he breaks the door down, and I think we’d fucking hear that before he managed it, don’t you?” She nodded, looking slightly less terrified. “And tomorrow, the locks will be changed and he won’t have a hope in fucking hell of getting in without your say so, okay?”

Nicola’s hand rested on her chest, and she was forcing herself to breathe steadily. “You, uh, you can stay in the spare room,” she said. “I’ll give you some of James’ pyjamas.”

She led him up the stairs to her bedroom, and turned the light on. She dug through a drawer and found a t-shirt and flannel bottoms. “Thanks,” he said, taking them from her.

Her hand reached up to his neck, her thumb resting on his cheek. “I am grateful, Malcolm,” she said. “Really. Thank you. Thank you for not letting James take my Ella.”

“You really think I’d have let him walk out of here with you or any fucking one of your children?” he challenged her. “After seeing what he did to you last night?”

And before he could do anything about it, she reached up and she kissed him. To his utmost surprise, he kissed back, until his brain regained its function and reminded him this was not okay, and that it could cause no end to fucking disasters. “Nic’la,” he mumbled against her lips. “Nic’la, this isn’t fucking right, is it?” he said to her. He took her face in his hands and said, “You’re upset; you’re jumpier than a flea on a fucking rat. You’re absolutely fucking exhausted, and you’re in a huge amount of pain. I know you don’t want to hear it, but right now, you’re fucking vulnerable.”

“And you, despite your front of toxic masculinity, won’t take advantage of a woman when she’s vulnerable,” she smiled.

“Exactly.”

Nicola reached up once more and kissed his cheek. “We’d better get some sleep if we’re going to be of any use tomorrow,” she told him. “Off to bed.”

“Goodnight, Nic’la,” he said.

“’Night, Malcolm.”

He went to the next bedroom, the spare, and changed into James’ pyjamas. He turned off the light and got into bed, wondering what would become of everyone in this house.

What had he been fucking thinking, kissing that anxious disaster? She was a mess. She was nothing but fucking trouble, wherever she went. She was able to pull political fuck ups out of thin air. She was a human shambles, every aspect of her being an utter fucking diabolical fiasco.

She was battered and bruised. She was frightened. She was in denial.

She was tougher than his grandad’s old steel toe caps. She was prepared to be the human shield between her husband and her children.

She had been forced into her nightmare scenario – a tiny, dark, locked cupboard – and managed to recover.

She was Nicola, and after months of trying to fathom the total shit she came away with, he had finally realised he wouldn’t have wanted her any other way.

* * *

 

Malcolm woke suddenly at the creaking of a door, briefly startled by the idea James might have managed to get into the house. But it wasn’t James. It was Nicola. He could hear her sobbing, so fumbled for the switch on the lamp.

In the dim light, he saw Nicola, her shoulders hunched and her hands over her face, crying her fucking heart out. “Nic’la?” he asked her, sitting up in bed. “What’s wrong?”

“My-” she stumbled over her words, struggling to get out what she wanted to say between sobs. “My daugh-daughter is d-dead,” she stammered through her tears.

It had finally happened. Earlier, she had cried for the fear she felt at the hands of her husband. But this, this was fucking worse. This was the realisation that she could never again see the girl she raised for sixteen years. He got out of bed and stood in front of her.

“Sh-she’s go-gone,” wailed Nicola. She toppled forwards, landing squarely in Malcolm’s arms.

He had never been very good at being a human being. In truth, he wasn’t entirely convinced he was one. Not when faced with the extraordinary raw humanity of Nicola, who felt everything that touched her with a depth Malcolm doubted he could ever know. She had stopped her attempts at speech, and Malcolm was glad; she could not possibly have the energy to try and convey coherent sentences through this mess of tears and snot.

He took her to the bed and sat her down, sensing from the weight she leaned on him that her legs were weak. But even as they sat, she clung to him.

He was, he realised with a bolt of terror and dread, all she had. Despite her tense but sociable nature, if there was one thing he’d learned about Nicola in the past two days, it was that she was extremely fucking lonely. All she had was her children and her mother. Malcolm recalled what Victoria said about James destroying Nicola’s self-esteem, and the more he thought on that, the more he could appreciate how it had shaped her. Though Victoria had alluded that Nicola was always a nervous person, he had to wonder how much worse James had made her problems. Victoria had said that, to the best of her knowledge, James had never physically assaulted Nicola before. Perhaps that was only because he didn’t need to; Malcolm had always known the marriage wasn’t a happy one. He just had never known the extent to which it was unhappy, or how it had moulded Nicola into the walking, talking catastrophe she appeared to be.

Beneath all that, under the layers of calamity, was the Nicola who operated apart from James. The Nicola who had gone to work the day after her daughter had died. The Nicola who had taken a beating from her husband but still stood up to him to protect her children. The Nicola who sat here now, courageous enough to finally confront the fact her daughter was dead and completely irretrievable.

There were two Nicola Murrays. One was real, with flaws, weakness and strength in abundance, and the other the product of her surroundings and her circumstances.

Malcom crawled under the duvet and beckoned Nicola to join him. He was exhausted and didn’t fancy sitting up for much longer. Nicola lay down next to him, still crying. “You’re gonna be okay, Nic’la,” he softly promised her. “You’re more than able to get through this.”

She turned around to face him. She had cried herself into a state of apparent calm, tears still pouring down her face, her breathing shallow but even, sniffling like she had the cold, but able to speak. “My little girl is dead, Malcolm,” she whimpered. “Nothing is ever going to be fucking okay again.”

“It’ll never be the same,” he allowed, “but that’s not to say you’ll never find a way to live with it.”

“You overestimate me.”

“You _under_ estimate yourself, Nic’la,” he told her. “That’s half your fucking problem. You want all of us to believe in you because you don’t know how to fucking believe in yourself.” He pulled her into his chest, rubbing her back gently, and turned off the lamp. Her response was to grasp tightly to his t-shirt, like she was scared he might vanish into the darkness. “And besides, who’s going to be strong for those kids if you don’t find a way to live? They’ve had their sister die and their dad go further off the rails than the train that went down with the fucking Tay Bridge. They can’t lose their mum as well, Nic’la.”

“I know,” she reassured him.

Malcolm pressed his face into Nicola’s wild mess of bushy hair, holding her close while she cried silently until she fell asleep. Even in her sleep, she held on tight, her fingers still gripping the cloth of his t-shirt.

Nicola was tiny in sleep. In his arms, she felt small. She was breakable, but she was capable of putting herself back together, even if, sometimes, she needed help. For now, he was one of only two sources of help available to Nicola – after all, Victoria could not be expected to deal with Nicola at work, and she could not be here all day every day, either.

He closed his eyes to go to sleep, but, greeted by the apparition of Katie’s deadened face, he immediately opened them again. If he were to have any opportunity to sleep, he was going to have to focus his mind elsewhere. So he thought on tonight. He recalled how Nicola’s children and mother embraced him into the home. He thought of how Nicola had managed to keep herself afloat for most of the night. And he remembered how she had kissed him; it was different to any kiss he’d shared with anyone. Though he allowed it to last for a mere few seconds, it had told its own story.

It told of Nicola’s newfound respect and affection for him, and his for her. Now that they saw one another as human beings – nothing more or less – Malcolm had discovered Nicola had a way of making him want to know and understand her.

The more he knew and understood, the more respect he found for her. There was a person underneath all that fucking madness and flustering, and it was person Malcolm was amazed to find he genuinely liked.

And with that distraction, and with that person in his arms, he fell into an undisturbed slumber.


	9. Relentless

“Mummy?” a small voice called out.

Malcolm rubbed his face and looked at the clock. It was only just after four in the morning. He slid out of bed and made his way very quietly out of the room. Ben was standing, teddy bear under his arm, staring into Nicola’s empty bedroom. “Ben, Mummy’s in here with me,” he whispered. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” he faltered.

Ben’s pyjama bottoms were wet, and the penny dropped in Malcolm’s head. “Oh, it’s okay,” Malcolm said. “C’mon and we’ll find you some clean PJs.”

He went to Ben’s room and opened the drawers. He found a pair of Scooby-Doo pyjamas, went to the bathroom and picked up the baby wipes, and returned to Ben, who had already undressed himself. It was funny, Malcolm noted, that children trusted him so much, when adults would sooner trust Adolf fucking Hitler. His niece was exactly the same; she, too, had no qualms about stripping off when she needed help after an accident.

Malcolm got down on his knees and wiped down Ben. “That a bit better?” he asked softly. Ben nodded. Though Ben was old enough to dress himself, it was easier and quieter to help him into his fresh clothes. He eyed the wet bed and sighed; he stripped it down and told Ben, “Wait there,” before going down to put the wet pyjamas and bedding in the washing machine.

When he got back, Ben was once more clutching at his teddy bear. “Can I come and sleep with you and Mummy?” he mumbled. “Please?”

Malcolm hesitated, but eventually said, “Aye, come on, then. It’s better to let your bed air out anyway.”

He scooped Ben up in his arms, turned the light out and took him through to the spare room. “Malcolm?” Ben whispered.

“What, mate?” He placed Ben in the middle of the bed and got in beside him.

“Why did Daddy lock Mummy in the cupboard?” he asked.

Malcolm paused. Was it better to lie to save the kid’s innocence, or tell him the truth so as not to insult his intelligence? He had to go with the one he appreciated more as a child. “Your Mummy’s claustrophobic,” he explained very quietly into Ben’s ear. “Do you know what that means?”

“No.”

“It means your Mummy gets very, very scared when she’s in small spaces,” Malcolm said. “That’s why she always takes the stairs – she can’t go in lifts or she gets really scared. If she’s in a small space and she can’t get out, it makes her panic. But it’s okay, ‘cause she knows where to go and where not to go.”

“But the cupboard is tiny!”

“I know,” Malcolm agreed. “Your Daddy is very angry, and he wanted to hurt your Mummy. He wanted to scare her, and he knew she’d be frightened in the cupboard.”

“But why is he angry at Mummy?” Ben asked.

Malcolm turned on his side, facing Ben. “He thinks that it’s your Mum’s fault Katie died,” he murmured.

Ben shifted onto his side, too, in order to face Malcolm. “It can’t be Mummy’s fault. Mummy loves Katie.”

“It was nobody’s fault, mate. It was an accident. It just happened. There’s no rhyme or reason to things like this, Ben.”

“I love Mummy,” Ben told Malcolm. “I wish Daddy didn’t want to scare her.”

He wriggled closer to Malcolm who, just as he had done with Nicola, put an arm over the child and held him close. “Me too, wee man. Me too. Now, what d’you say we try and get another couple of hours’ kip ‘til your granny comes round?”

Ben nodded against Malcolm’s chest. It didn’t take them long to fall asleep, after Ben’s burning question of why his mother had ended up in the cupboard under the stairs was answered.

It was the doorbell that woke Malcolm, little more than two hours later, and he remembered suddenly that Victoria had promised to be here early, and that the bolt was on the door. “Fuck!” he muttered to himself.

“What is it?” asked a sleepy Nicola.

“It’s fine,” he assured her. “Just locked your mother out, that’s all.”

He didn’t turn the lamp on, as he didn’t want to wake Ben. This, however, meant he could not see where he was going in the little light that came through the curtains; he caught his knee on the corner of the bed’s footboard. “Fucking bastard!” he hissed, still trying not to wake any of the children. He heard Nicola snigger. “You fucking shut up!” he whispered. She only tittered louder, muffling it against her pillow.

He hobbled down the stairs and looked through the spyhole. It was indeed Victoria; he unlocked and unbolted the door to let her in. “Any trouble?” Victoria asked, pulling off her coat.

“Uh, no,” Malcolm said. “Well, Nicola got into a bit of a state. I had to let her in my bed to settle her. And Ben has wet the bed, so he’s been bunking with us since about four,” he explained. “I’m just away to put the washing machine on.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll do it,” Victoria waved away his offer. “You’ve done plenty, and you’ll have to go home and get ready for work. Can’t have the country knowing the Prime Minister can’t be trusted to take a piss on his own,” she grinned.

“Thanks,” he nodded. He bounded up the stairs and grabbed his clothes and shoes, changing hastily in the dark. Once in his jeans and jumper, he bent down to Nicola. “I’m away home for a shower before work,” he told her, pushing her hair away from her face. “Ben’s in bed with you, your mum’s downstairs, and you can probably get away with another half hour,” he said.

She nodded her head. “Thanks, Malcolm,” she said. “And I’m sorry for being such a fucking wreck,” she added. “That wasn’t fair on you.”

“Shut up,” he advised her. “I’d be more worried if you hadn’t been a fucking wreck.”

“How’s Mum?” Nicola diverted the subject away from her own state of mind.

“She’s alright,” Malcolm said. “I think she’s just trying to get on with things.”

“And why is that okay for her but not for me?” Nicola challenged him.

“Because she is not you and you are not her,” Malcolm replied sternly. “You’re liable to start crying when fucking Mike and Sully have to put the fucking child back where it came from,” he snorted.

“It was a very emotional moment, okay?!”

He laughed; he was right about her all along. She was a massive marshmallow inside, despite how strong she managed to be. “I’ll see you at work,” he promised her. He reached out and gently squeezed her hand, reminding her that he was here if she needed him. If he was going to be one of only two people to try and help her through this nightmare, he might as well do it properly.

“See you later,” she mumbled, patently drifting off to sleep once more.

He smiled and left the bedroom. When he got down the stairs, he headed to the kitchen to see Victoria. “Come and bolt the door over when I leave, Victoria,” he said. She followed him without a reply, so he reminded her, “And you keep it fucking locked and bolted until you get the locks changed. Last thing you need is James fucking psycho balls Murray wading in here and grabbing the kids off you.”

“Of course, Malcolm,” she answered him.

He smiled and left, not walking away from the door until he heard the lock click and the bolt slide into place. Nicola might call them paranoid, but Malcolm really did believe she was still in considerable danger. James did not appear the type to relent.

He unlocked his car, but did not get in. There was a pair of eyes on him, he was sure of it. He turned around gave the street a sweeping search, but there was nobody there. The windows of Nicola’s house were empty, the upstairs ones still with their curtains drawn. The road was empty. There was nobody loitering; indeed, there was nobody even walking around. It was only just seven in the morning and very few people needed to be walking around at this time of the day.

Malcolm shook his head and put it out of his mind. Perhaps Nicola was right and there was a tiny bit of paranoia muddled in with all that real concern.

* * *

 

By noon, the Prime Minister had made his speech. Fucked it up completely, obviously, but managed to salvage some of his dignity nearer the end. Really, it was easier minding Nicola’s three children than minding this one man who was supposed to be in charge of the running of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. The man was a total fucking idiot, but so was most of his Cabinet, so Malcolm didn’t know why he expected anything different.

Once back at Number 10, he sat at his desk and pulled his hand over his face. He was tired, irritable and so not in the fucking mood for dealing with Cabinet Ministers who didn’t know their arse from their elbow and couldn’t hide it from the electorate.

He took a bite of his sandwich and logged onto his computer. There were emails that needed checking (and plenty that needed ignored) and a few that needed sent.

He was in the process of telling the editor of the Daily Mail to lick his arse when his phone rang.

“Malcolm, where are you?” Olly said. He sounded panicked.

“Number 10,” Malcolm answered. “Why? What have you lot fucked up now?!”

“Nothing!” Olly shouted indignantly. “There’s something going on – Nicola phoned and said to tell you she wants to meet you outside DoSAC, but I’ve to stay in the building and keep Terri and Glenn in too.”

“Well, did she say why?” Malcolm demanded as he lifted his jacket.

“She was being very cryptic, Malcolm,” Olly explained. “I don’t think she wanted me to know what’s going on.”

“Right,” Malcolm sighed. “Do as she says and stay where you are.”

He hung up and half-ran out of Number 10. It took him only a few minutes to get to DoSAC; Nicola lurked around the corner from the entrance, facing the wall. “Nicola?” he said as he approached her.

“Mum got the locks changed first thing this morning,” Nicola said, still facing the wall. He could not see her face. “James went round and tried to get in. He’s not fucking happy he’s been locked out of his own fucking house.”

“Then he should fucking behave himself, Nicola!” Malcolm reminded her, unable to keep the contempt for Nicola’s husband out of his tone. “Nic’la?”

He stepped around her so he was able to see her from the side. There was a bruise just starting to come up on her throat. Malcolm reached out and turned Nicola’s head gently by the chin. Her lip was bleeding, and a second bruise was beginning to form on her cheek. “You’ve got to call the fucking police, Nic’la.”

“I can’t,” she hissed. “I can’t put the kids through that.”

“But you can put them through seeing their mum come home with a battered face?” Malcolm retorted. He struggled to keep his voice low; his anger had a stranglehold on his ability to think about the consequences of finding James and hospitalising the bastard. “Keep your head down,” he ordered her, guiding her with a hand on her back into the DoSAC building.

She nodded; they climbed the stairs to the office, and silently walked into hers. She sat down in her chair. “What happened?” he asked her.

“He must’ve followed me,” she moaned. “I went out to get lunch, and he ambushed me, Malcolm. I didn’t fucking see him coming. He pulled me into an alley and started about the locks. When I refused to phone Mum and tell her to let him in to see the kids, he…” she trailed away, gesturing at upwards to her face and neck to explain what she could not find the words to express. “He’s still convinced what happened to Katie is my fault. He’s demanding that he gets control of the funeral. I don’t see why, since he barely fucking knew Katie.”

Malcolm held out his mobile phone. “Call the police. Now. Before this gets out of fucking control and you end up in the fucking morgue beside Katie.”

“Malcolm, what are the papers going to say?” she reasoned. “Minister for Social Affairs and Citizenship can’t control her own fucking husband but we’re letting her take control of the social wellbeing of this country?”

“Fuck the papers,” Malcolm snarled. “I’ll fucking deal with them.”

“Calm down!”

“No!” shouted Malcolm, finally losing his grip on his temper. “Nic’la, you cannot fucking let this continue. That’s three times in three fucking days!”

Nicola stood up. “You’re not just angry.” Her expression was not one of annoyance. She was curious. “You’re not just angry because a man has brought a woman to harm. What’s really going on?”

Malcolm glared at her, infuriated that she could see beyond the rage on the surface. She was right; this wasn’t just about the moral repugnance of someone attacking the person they were supposed to love above all others. This was about Nicola. This was about seeing her in more pain than a normal person could bear, and seeing her bear it anyway. This was about seeing who Nicola Murray really was and finding he admired her.

It was about being terrified that, after finding this Nicola underneath all the shit, he might lose her, either to James’ constant assault on her self-worth, or to James’ hands.

But he ignored her question and went out to Nicola’s colleagues. “Terri, get me a first aid kit. Olly, go and make us all a cup of coffee. Fuck knows we’re gonna need it. Glenn, go out and get some paracetamol and some ibuprofen.”

Though visibly bewildered, they did as they were told and scattered.

He returned to Nicola and said, “Phone the fucking police. Get it over with.”

“Malcolm…”

“Nicola,” he stopped her. “Please.”

Something about that word shocked her enough to silence her. He offered her his phone once more. This time, she took it into her hand, looking down into its screen; she had not made her decision – he could see that – but she was closer to seeing his side of things.

There was a knock at the door, and Terri entered with the first aid kit. “Would you like me to…” she began to offer.

She faltered at the sight of Nicola, and shot Malcolm an accusing glare. “What, you really think I’d hit Nicola?” he snapped at Terri, who looked thoroughly taken aback at the direct answer to her silent assumption.

“It wasn’t Malcolm,” sighed Nicola.

Terri didn’t ask any questions, but handed over the first aid kit to Malcolm.

When she left, Malcolm turned to Nicola once more. “If you don’t call the police, I fucking will,” he threatened. “I don’t want to see you hurt any more than you already are,” he admitted. “So, please, just report it. Report everything. The beating he gave you the night Katie died, what he did to you last night, and this. Just fucking tell the police and get him under control once and for all.”

Nicola didn’t take her eyes off him, but she pressed three buttons on his phone and put it to her ear.


	10. Evidence

It all happened very rapidly. Before long, Malcolm and Glenn were sitting in the local police station, waiting while Nicola gave her statement and allowed officers to document her injuries. The silence moved along a thread. At one end, Malcolm could not initiate a conversation about what had happened to Nicola, and at the other was Glenn, who didn’t know how to ask the question.

There was a chaotic trilling as both their phones rang at once.

“Terri?” Malcolm answered his.

He heard Glenn pick his phone up with, “What is it, Olly?”

Malcolm put a bit of distance between himself and Glenn so he could hear what Terri proceeded to tell him. “Malcolm, the Guardian and the BBC know Nicola is with the police,” Terri rushed out. “I’m getting a lot of phone calls, a lot of speculation that it could be something to do with Katie’s car accident, or that Nicola has done something to break the law. What do I tell them?”

Malcolm, in frustration, kicked the painted brick wall. He instantly regretted it when a shot of pain went through his toes and foot. “Fuck’s sake!” he shouted. He had hoped they’d have more time than this.

“What do I do?”

“You tell them,” Malcolm began, trying very hard to compose himself, “you fucking tell them Katie’s death was purely an accident and nothing more, and you tell them Nicola Murray has done nothing to break the fucking law. She’s as dull as my granny’s two-day old dishwater, so I don’t know how the fuck they came up with the idea Nic’la has enough imagination to fucking break the law! She is not in police custody!”

“But what reason do I give for Nicola being at the station if she’s not in custody and it’s nothing to do with Katie’s death?” Terri probed him.

“Tell them a statement will be made in due course,” he snapped. “You say absolutely nothing about her fucking husband, you hear me? Not yet.”

He hung up on her before she could reply. Glenn had already hung up on Olly, looking extremely uncomfortable. “That Olly telling you the hacks know we’re here?”

“No,” he said. “Malcolm, sit down,” Glenn told him. Malcolm, mostly because his foot was still fucking sore, threw himself into the chair next to Glenn. “You know Emma?”

“Olly’s fucking on-again off-again migraine?”

“She sent him this. She must’ve been out for lunch at the same time as Nicola.” Glenn passed his phone to Malcolm. On the screen was a fucking hideous video clip of James and Nicola in an alleyway, his hand squeezing her face as he held her to the wall.

“Fucking phone Victoria,” spat James, “and tell her to let me in the house.”

“No, James,” Nicola answered him. “You’re being-”

“What am I being? I’d pick my next words extremely bloody carefully if I were you!”

“You’re being a fucking abusive twat!” she said, obviously having had her patience tested too far. “Katie’s gone, James! Our little girl is _dead_! Maybe you ought to try and focus your energy on dealing with the fact your daughter was killed in a fucking car crash rather than beating me black and fucking blue because you think it’s my fault for letting her go and see a fucking movie with her best friend!”

James drew back and slapped Nicola with the back of his hand, holding her to the wall by the throat. Malcolm had to force himself not to look away.

“James!” Nicola cried out.

“Now you listen here, _Nicola_ ,” sneered James. “I will be coming home. I will be taking charge of Katie’s funeral. I will say when the kids go back to school and we go back to work. And I will say when your fucking bitch of a mother is allowed in the house!”

Nicola struggled against James, trying to free herself from his chokehold. “James!” she spluttered. “James, I can’t fucking breathe!” He did not release her, so Nicola brought up her knee to his groin. When he doubled over in shock and pain, she ran, and the video ended.

Malcolm stared at Glenn, who looked as horrified as Malcolm felt. “Why didn’t fucking Emma do something to stop it?”

“Emma’s tiny, Malcolm,” Glenn sighed. “He would’ve had her for dinner. Olly said that Emma said she filmed it so there was evidence it actually happened, because she wanted Nicola to be taken seriously if she decided to report it.”

“We need her to come in and show this to the police. It’ll be the last nail in the bastard’s coffin,” he said. “Phone fucking Olly and tell him to convince Emma to come down here. And tell him to tell her to keep that twat Phil and that fucking maniac Stewart Pearson away from the fucking press. Mannion is not to use this.”

“In all honesty, Malcolm, I don’t think Mannion would be willing to use this against her.”

“I know that, but I’m not taking any fucking chances.”

Half an hour later, Emma walked into the building. Malcolm could hear the clamour of journalists outside, and realised with great exasperation that Nicola could not hope to leave here without making some sort of statement. “Christ, they’re swarming like maggots on a corpse out there!” she complained. She put her hand over her mouth. When she lowered it, she said, “I’m so sorry. That was in bad taste, wasn’t it?”

“Wee bit,” agreed Malcolm. “But listen, Emma, thank you for coming out here to give evidence,” he continued.

“Well, government, opposition, whatever side of the field we’re on, women have to stick up for each other,” Emma said. She turned to speak to the officer at reception, who soon got another officer in to take Emma’s statement.

When Nicola reappeared, she looked completely exhausted. To Malcolm’s surprise, and slight embarrassment when he remembered Glenn was standing next to him, Nicola walked straight up to him and put her arms around him. “How did it go?” he asked.

“It was fucking horrible,” Nicola moaned, “but they’ve photographed my injuries, and I gave my statement, so I guess it’s a case of figuring out where the hell James is so they can arrest him. They want to speak to you, Malcolm, but they said to come in and do it tomorrow morning.”

Malcolm put Nicola at arms’ length. “You know Emma? Mannion’s minion? She saw it all when he pulled you down into that fucking closey. She filmed it on her phone. She’s in there with the police right now.”

“What, there’s solid evidence against him?”

“Yeah, she has footage of him slapping you and holding you to the wall by the fucking throat,” Malcolm explained. “James is fucked.” Despite his best efforts, he could not keep the smallest hint of satisfaction and glee out of his voice.

Nicola sighed and sat down, her head in her hands.

“The other thing is, Nicola,” Glenn spoke for the first time since she came out, “the press knows you’re here. They’re outside.”

“Which means I’ve to give a fucking statement so they know I’m not here because I’m being charged with fucking embezzlement, or worse,” she replied. Her fatigue came across as a curtness to her voice that Malcolm found often preceded tears. “What do I say?”

“That’s up to you,” Malcolm said. She was obviously surprised. Admittedly, Malcolm usually planned Nicola’s every move down to the last detail – there was less room for her to make a fucking mess that way – but he could not tell her what to do here. He could help her do whatever it was she wanted to do, but he could not choose what that might be.

Nicola stared at the floor. “We should be open about it,” she mumbled. “There’s no point in trying to hide it. It’ll all come out in the end, anyway.”

“Alright,” Malcolm said. He went over to the reception and asked, “Have you got some paper and a pen, please?” The uniformed man nodded and handed him a notebook and biro, which he turned and gave to Nicola. He sat down next to her.

“What the fuck do I say?” she asked.

“There are two things you do need to clarify, Nicola,” Glenn said. “First, you need to confirm Katie’s death was just an accident and the police aren’t investigating it as anything else. Second, you need to make it perfectly plain you were never in police custody.”

She nodded, and she began to write. After a minute or two, she hesitated, but didn’t stop. Malcolm was pleased to find, as he read over her shoulder, that she was really quite literate, even if her handwriting was fucking diabolical. She was able to write freely; Malcolm wondered if it was almost therapeutic to get it out onto a page in her own words.

When she had finished, Malcolm handed it to Glenn to look over, and wandered back to the reception to return the book and pen. In his bias, he wouldn’t have minded if Nicola called James every expletive under the sun – Glenn was able to be more objective. Malcolm went into his pocket and handed Nicola two paracetamol capsules. She looked at him, looking a bit confused. “You can take paracetamol between ibuprofen,” he explained. “You just can’t be taking ibuprofen every fucking hour.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“Yeah, that’s good, Nicola,” Glenn said, handing her back her paper. “Are you sure you want to admit to the claustrophobia, though?”

“Yes,” Nicola said defiantly. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Glenn. It doesn’t make me some fucking mental case. And it puts what James did last night into context.”

“Okay,” Glenn said with a glance at Malcolm. Though Nicola’s claustrophobia infuriated him, and though he had on occasion labelled her as mental for her phobia, he knew it was nothing but yet another of Nicola’s bizarre and humanising quirks. “Ready?”

“Ready,” breathed Nicola.

Malcolm led her out, with Glenn behind Nicola, to the buzz of the journalists outside. “Mrs. Murray has prepared a short statement to clarify why she’s here,” Malcolm told them. “No questions afterwards, please.” He had a feeling they’d all be knocked for six by the admission of domestic violence, anyway, but it was still something that needed said.

“Thank you,” Nicola said. “I would like to begin by reiterating that my daughter’s death was a tragic accident, and that the police are not investigating what happened to Katie as anything else. I am not here in police custody, either, and I have not broken the law. As you’ve probably already noticed, I have sustained injuries to my face and throat, and that is why I am here. In the past three days, my husband has run a campaign of violence against me,” she said. Her voice cracked slightly, and Malcolm saw that she was struggling. He offered to take it the statement and do it for her, but she gave a small but unmistakeable shake of her head. “On Wednesday night, my husband, in his grief for the loss of our eldest daughter, was very drunk. He became violent towards me, leaving me with injuries to my torso and legs. Last night, while I was spending time with my children, my mum and a friend, he tried to forcibly take my children out of our home, while under the influence of alcohol. When I tried to intervene, he locked me in the cupboard under the stairs. He did this in the knowledge that I am claustrophobic to the point that I cannot use lifts. He did this to frighten and harm me. And today, he ambushed me on the street. When I did not give him what he wanted, he hit me across the face and put me in a chokehold. Enough is enough. The police will be investigating this as a charge of assault and actual bodily harm. Peter Mannion’s Special Advisor, Emma Messinger, has also come to the police to hand in evidence; she does not need to disclose that evidence to the general public, and may indeed be asked not to by the police. At this time, I ask that the media respect my privacy, and that of my three young children, my mother, and my colleagues, friends and acquaintances. I ask on behalf of Emma Messinger that you respect her right to privacy, too. I hope that the information I have freely given answers any questions you may have about today’s events. Thank you.”

The reporters let them pass and get into the car that had been waiting for Nicola to exit. “Malcolm, phone my mum and tell her not to let the kids hear the news or see the papers,” she whispered to him. He took her phone from her and dialled Victoria’s number.

“Nicola?” Victoria answered. “Sophie, for fuck’s sake, put that away before you electrocute yourself!”

Malcolm tried not to smirk. “It’s me, Malcolm, Victoria,” he said. “Listen, there’s been an escalation. James attacked Nic’la on the street today, so she’s gone to the police. The press got wind of it and we had to make a statement. Nic’la doesn’t want the kids to see or hear the news before she gets a chance to tell them herself.”

“Is she okay?” Victoria asked, a level of fear in her voice. “James was round here earlier, going apeshit because his key didn’t fit in the door. Scared the kids fucking senseless.”

“She’ll be okay,” Malcolm said, turning to look at Nicola. “She’s tough as old fucking boots, this one.” Nicola gave a weak smile, while Glenn looked between the two of them like they’d lost their fucking minds.

“Look after her, Malcolm,” Victoria ordered him. “She’ll send you away and tell you she can manage fine on her own, but she’s never been good at being alone. Just fucking look after her. Please.”

“I will, Victoria,” he promised. “I will.”


	11. Stay

Malcolm took Nicola home himself that night. He didn’t feel she ought to be alone with a driver she barely knew after one of the most distressing days she’d ever had. “You’re being so kind, Malcolm,” she said, breaking the silence above the growling of the engine and the roar of tires on a wet road. “I really don’t understand why. You’ve despised me since the moment I first walked into DoSAC.”

“If I really despised you,” Malcolm said carefully, “I wouldn’t give you the time of fucking day. I’d have let you hang yourself with your own fucking rope a long time ago.”

“Okay, so you never hated me,” Nicola acknowledged. “So what’s changed in the past three days?”

Malcolm didn’t really know how to answer that.

Nicola had changed, certainly; she had shown more backbone, nerve, courage and determination than he could ever have dreamed she had in her. The Nicola who existed underneath the Nicola who found the world such a confusing, anxiety-inducing, horrible place had broken through, and all because she was needed. The real Nicola was needed, because the real Nicola was full of the love, compassion, strength and protection.

But hadn’t he changed, too? He found himself fond of Nicola. He found himself with the ability to express some of his emotions without a defence of rage and bullying. And her children…his first instinct was to care for them. He always thought that if he ever met Nicola Murray’s children, he’d run the other direction at as high a speed as his legs could take him. Now, he discovered his impulse with them was the very same as it was with his own niece – he wanted to be there for them. They were having a horrendous time of it, with their sister dead and their father behaving like a fucking nutjob. All they had was each other, their mother – who was battered and bruised and grieving herself – and their grandmother. He could scarcely imagine what that must have been like, but he found himself trying to feel as they felt, as Nicola felt, as Victoria felt, just so he could know it.

He had learned real empathy. And with that, came a whole host of problems, not least that Nicola Murray had now seen him cry.

He parked his car on the driveway and helped Nicola carry her belongings to the house; she knocked on the door, since she didn’t have the new key. Victoria opened the door, and Ben instantly jumped into his mother’s arms. “Mummy!”

“Hello, darling,” Nicola smiled.

“What happened to your face?” Sophie asked. The girl wasn’t smiling. Ella mirrored her sister’s expression of worry, though hers was tainted with disgust. Malcolm thought she had a fair idea about how her mother came to be injured.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll head off. See you on Monday, Nic’la,” he said.

She caught his hand. “Stay, Malcolm. Please.”

Malcolm glanced at Victoria and the children and then told Nicola, “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You won’t be intruding,” Victoria, very unhelpfully, informed him.

Sophie stepped up to him, craning her neck to look him in the eyes. “We’re getting takeaway!” she grinned. “Pizza or Chinese?”

Malcolm sighed and took off his coat. Perhaps it was time to admit that he did, on some fucking insane level, enjoy being here. It was like having friends. Sophie ran away to the kitchen, while Nicola led Malcolm to the living room. Nicola shut the door, and leaned against it so no children could burst in. “How do I explain this to them?” she whispered, pointing towards her face.

“You tell them the fucking truth,” Malcolm suggested. “Ella’s old enough to have already worked out it was James. Sophie’s probably not fucking far behind her.” Nicola looked at the floor. “You tell them James hit you, and because James hit you, he’s now in serious fucking trouble. You can’t lie to them about this, Nic’la.”

She nodded her head, apparently still searching for the right words to give her children. “I’m such a shit mother, Malcolm,” she mumbled. Her confidence in herself had taken a nose-dive since James’ latest attack on her; Malcolm had almost been waiting for this. “One of my kids is fucking dead, the rest have just seen me with a black and blue face-”

“Because you were fucking protecting them!” Malcolm interrupted her. He lifted her head and looked down into her beaten face, only to see tears welling up in her eyes. “And Katie’s death was an accident. It’s nobody’s fault, and I know you know that.”

“Well, maybe,” Nicola allowed, “but Ben, Sophie and Ella shouldn’t have to know that their mum is so weak that she’s managed to get herself a backhand to the fucking face!”

Malcolm put his hand on Nicola’s unharmed cheek. “You, Nic’la, are a good mother,” he said. “You got hurt protecting your children. You stepped in and made sure their father did not get the fucking opportunity to do to them what he did to you. You are a _good mother_. But James? Even when he wasn’t being an abusive cunt, he was never there. He fucking walked out on the children and left them alone in the fucking night. He is _not_ a good parent. You have fucking nothing to worry about on that front, my dear.”

“But I ran out on them on Wednesday night!”

“And if you hadn’t, they might have been burying their fucking mother as well as their sister!” he barked at her. “Has it entered that fucking chickpea-sized mind of yours that if you’d stayed here with him, he might not have fucking stopped?!”

Nicola stared up at him with a slightly mad expression, like a crazy professor solving a fucking quantum physics equation. “You’re scared,” she said. “That’s the second time you’ve brought up the idea of me dying.” She lightly touched his chest. “And the only way you could be scared…is if you actually gave a fuck about me.”

Malcolm looked away, unable to verbally prove or disprove her theory.

“You know, I heard you with Ben this morning,” Nicola confessed. “I heard you clean up my child for me so I wouldn’t have to get out of bed. I heard you tell him it was okay. I heard you explain to him why James did what he did. You told him what claustrophobia is, and you did it without calling me fucking mental.”

Fuck.

His mind raced back to a moment that had been niggling at him all day. A moment he had been very fucking happy thinking Nicola had never known about. He hoped to whatever it was up there claiming to be a higher fucking power that she hadn’t taken any notice of the tail end of his conversation with Ben.

Ben, Malcolm remembered, had made two statements. Malcolm still wasn’t sure if he had answered, “Me too,” to one or both of them. And now was not the appropriate time to be discussing that matter with Nicola. He was not prepared to admit that he felt any sort of real affection for her. That wasn’t even his biggest problem.

His biggest problem was that he did feel real affection for her.

Within the hour, the six of them sat in the living room, with _Toy Story_ on the TV and more pizza than they had any hope of eating. To make it better, there was a mountain of sweets and ice cream in the kitchen that Ben, Sophie and Ella were hell bent upon eating after this, too.

Nicola paused the television, only to be met with a chorus of, “Mum!”

“I need to speak to you,” Nicola said, taking a drink from her glass of cola. “And I need you to listen to me. Your dad, he’s in big trouble.”

“Why?” Ben asked. His tone wasn’t accusatory, and he wasn’t upset. He was just interested.

“Because,” Nicola began, leaning forwards, “of this.” She was touching her face, and moved her finger down to her throat. “He hurt me, and I was scared. I was very, very scared that he would hurt me again, or that he might hurt one of you, or Granny.”

Ella got to her feet. “This is my fault. If I’d-”

“It is _not_ your fault!” said Malcolm, Nicola and Victoria in unison.

“The only person to blame for what your dad has done to me,” said Nicola, addressing Ella directly now, “is your dad. He’s a grown up. He made the decision to hit me. He made the decision to lock me in the cupboard. He must take responsibility for what he’s done.” Ella started to cry, so Nicola stood up and took the girl into her arms. “Your dad loves you, all of you. He just can’t be married to me anymore.”

“You’re splitting up?” Sophie asked fearfully. “Like, getting a divorce?”

“I think we’ll have to, darling,” Nicola said over Ella’s shoulder. “He keeps hurting me. What do I tell you to do about people who hurt you in the playground?”

“Tell a teacher and keep out of their way,” Sophie answered.

“Well, your dad has seriously hurt me,” Nicola explained, “so I’ve told the police and now I’m going to be keeping out of his way.”

Sophie squirmed into Victoria’s arms. Ben made a move that seemed to surprise everyone in the room: he ran straight onto Malcolm’s lap. He held the boy tightly, startled to catch himself thinking that this was the place he ought to be, after all.

By the end of _Toy Story_ , Ben had fallen asleep on top of Malcolm; on Nicola’s orders, they took him up to his room and changed him into his pyjamas without disturbing his sleep. The kid was so out of it that there was no way he was waking up. Nicola tucked him in and kissed his forehead. Malcolm switched off the light.

When they got downstairs, Victoria was already telling Ella and Sophie to go up and get changed.

“But it’s only half-nine!” whined Ella. “And it’s Friday!”

Nicola smiled slightly. “Tell you what,” she reasoned. “You can watch another film with Sophie in your room. But keep the noise down. Your brother’s asleep and he had a rough night last night.”

“Can we take some sweets up?” Sophie grinned.

“You’re pushing it now,” Nicola raised an eyebrow at her youngest daughter.

“Please!” Sophie added, like it was going to help her case for taking sweets upstairs at half past nine at night.

Nicola rolled her eyes. “One each. And you brush your teeth after you’ve eaten them!”

When the girls ran out the room as Victoria headed for the kitchen, Malcolm sat down on the sofa, rubbing his eyes. Whether because the comfort and weight of Ben falling asleep on top of him made him drowsy, or he’d had far too much pizza, or today had just been too much – or a combination of the three – he was fairly sure he could sleep wherever he dropped.

“You alright?” Nicola asked him.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Just fucking knackered. Slightly worried I might fall asleep at the fucking wheel, if I’m honest,” he admitted. Right now, with the way his eyes just wanted to close, it was a very real danger.

Nicola sat down and put her arm around his shoulders. “I’m sorry for all this, Malcolm. I know it must be fucking exhausting for you, worrying about all of it. Worrying about me.”

“Not half as bad as it must be for you,” he gave a humourless laugh. “Y’know, I actually have no fucking idea how you manage it.”

“Manage what?”

“To survive this with any fucking grace and kindness still intact.”

She smiled. “I don’t have a lot of choice, Malcolm,” she reminded him. “And, anyway, I don’t want to let this world make me fucking cruel, or twisted, or bitter. Katie wouldn’t want that.”

Malcolm leaned back, Nicola’s arm still around him, and stared at the ceiling. He heard the girls run upstairs and the grandmother warn them to be quiet. Victoria came into the living room. Malcolm didn’t much like her smirk when she laid eyes on him and her daughter, but he was far too tired to be pulling her up for it. “I’m going to go home, Nicola,” she said. “Remember to lock the door before you go to bed.”

“Okay, Mum,” Nicola said wearily. “Thank you for minding the kids. Love you.”

“Love you, too, sweetheart,” Victoria said. “Goodnight, Malcolm.”

“Aye, goodnight, Victoria,” Malcolm replied, quickly opening his eyes too late after them starting to droop closed. She snorted quietly at him and left, closing the door very quietly so as not to wake Ben.

Nicola and Malcolm sat in silence for a few minutes. Had she heard everything he and Ben had said this morning? Or was she completely oblivious? Christ, he hoped she was as oblivious as she usually was to her surroundings.

She fell closer to his body; he was sure she was starting to fall asleep, too. However, he quickly discovered he was very much mistaken. She hadn’t fallen asleep at all. “ _But since it fell unto my lot; that I should rise and you should not_ ,” she sang. “ _I gently rise and softly call, “Goodnight, and joy be to you all.”_ ”

“ _The Parting Glass_?” Malcolm said, confused by her choice of song.

“Is that what it’s called?”

“Yeah. It’s an old folk song,” Malcolm enlightened her. “The Scots and the Irish sang it before Burns wrote _Auld Lang Syne_.”

“Oh,” Nicola said. “Katie loved that song. She learned it in the school choir last year, and just never stopped loving it. Used to sing it under her breath whenever she thought nobody was listening.”

“What were kids in a posh London school doing learning that song?” Malcolm laughed.

“There was a girl in Year 10 who played the bagpipes,” Nicola said. “I think she was from Perth or something. There was another kid in Year 8 who did the violin. They did it for the end of year concert back in June. It was really quite good, actually.”

Malcolm touched Nicola’s hip and said, “Why don’t you have it at her funeral, then?”

Nicola turned to face Malcolm. “That’s a good idea. I’ve been wondering what to do about music. Katie fucking hated hymns. She hated church as well. Played sick every time she was meant to go with school,” she chuckled. “She thought I fell for it every time, but I worked it out the second Christmas she did it. I just didn’t see the point in forcing her into the church when she didn’t seem to have any belief in God or religion, and blatantly fucking hated going.”

“Can’t fault the girl,” Malcolm laughed.

Nicola laid her hand on his chest. “Stay,” she said, for the second time tonight. “You said yourself you’re too tired to drive. Last thing I need is to lose you in a bloody car crash as well.”

Malcolm ran his hand down his face. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Three words I thought I’d never hear leave Malcolm Tucker’s mouth,” Nicola retorted. He noticed now that her fingers were playing absentmindedly in his hair, which probably wasn’t doing anything to keep him awake. But, because she seemed genuinely unaware that she was doing it, he chose not to directly stop her. It could only make her self-conscious, and he didn’t want to put her under any further pressure.

With a groan as he realised just how stiff his joints were, Malcolm got up and locked the door. “Bedtime for us, too,” he ordered Nicola. “After the day we’ve had, I could sleep for a fucking week. Or maybe a decade. In fact, just wake me up when I reach fucking retirement age, would you?”

Nicola giggled, and Malcolm was faced with another terrifying thought: Nicola’s laugh was becoming one of his favourite sounds.


	12. Humanity

Malcom wandered down the road, the pavement wet against his soles. The air was frozen with that dampness that seared right through the bones. The streetlights reflected against the standing water, spreading an orange glow out into the middle of the road.

There was no noise. Even as his feet hit the soaked ground with each step, they didn’t make a sound. Across the road, he saw Nicola’s house; two cars parked in the driveway. At first, he thought one was his, but he was standing next to his on the other side of the street.

One car was Nicola’s.

The other belonged to James.

Malcolm crossed the road, wondering why he was out here in the first place – especially with no fucking shoes on. He walked slowly up the drive, between James’ car and Nicola’s, and tried to open the door. It was locked. Why would Nicola lock herself in the house with James? Was she really _so_ fucking dense? He’d always known she lacked in the common sense department, but never believed her daft enough to do this.

He rapped his knuckles against the wood of the door. A muffled screaming was the reply that came. “Nicola?!” he shouted. He knocked on the door again, and rang the doorbell.

The screaming, the pleading yells, continued; the door shook with the force of something hitting the adjoining wall. Malcolm rattled at the door, trying to force it open. It did no good. A second scream joined the first, but from here, Malcolm could not make out which child. He slammed his whole hand against the door. “It’s me, Malcolm,” he bellowed. “Ella, Sophie, Ben, whichever one of you is there, open the fucking door for me!”

The door shook again, but this time with a child’s inexperienced hands trying to make sense of the locks.

After what seemed an hour of listening to Nicola’s screams grow more desperate, but diminishing quickly, the front door swung open. Sophie stood there. “Get upstairs. Now!” he barked at her.

James stepped away from Nicola, advancing on Malcolm. And for some reason, perhaps because he had exhausted himself beating Nicola, it was very easy to take James by the shirt and throw him out of the house. Malcolm locked the door and got on his knees.

Nicola was bleeding from her mouth, nose, head, ear, so badly battered that she was barely recognisable. “Nicola!” he shouted. “Can you hear me?”

Her body was lifeless. He put his ear to Nicola’s mouth, only to find she was not breathing. He tried to find a pulse, but it was not there. Panic spread through him, paralysing his limbs and his mind. He couldn’t find his phone. He couldn’t find the bodily strength to stand up and find the landline, or Nicola’s mobile. The method for CPR had disappeared from his memory. All he managed to do was try and shake Nicola awake.

“Nic’la, fucking wake up!”

“Malcolm!” a voice broke through to him. “Malcolm!”

He looked around for the source, but it was not there. He was entirely alone.

“Malcolm!”

He couldn’t see anything. He shook his head slightly, and realised he was in a dark room. “Malcolm,” breathed out that wonderfully familiar voice. “Malcolm, you’re okay.”

Light flooded the room. Ella stood at the bedroom door, and asked, “Are you alright, Malcolm?”

“Yeah,” he sighed, lying mostly to spare Ella any unnecessary worry, “yeah, I’m fine, darlin’. You go back to bed and get some sleep, okay?”

She nodded and went back to her own room. Malcolm heard her tell Sophie that he was okay and it was just a bad dream. “Fuck’s sake,” he grumbled. He sat up in bed, setting his eyes upon Nicola for the first time in the lightened room. She was free of injury, aside from the cuts and bruises she had sustained much earlier in the day.

But, just as he could not rid himself of Katie’s dead body, he could not banish the idea of a very battered, very dead Nicola Murray. Now that his fear had fuelled his imagination to actually see what that might look like, it was stuck there. “What was it, Malcolm?” Nicola whispered. “You were absolutely bloody terrified! Thrashing around, screwing your face up like you were in fucking agony!”

Malcolm stared down at the duvet.

How could he ever admit to this? How could he ever fucking tell her that he was more frightened of her vicious and violent husband than she was?

The thought of her lying there dead was too much for him to bear, and yet he couldn’t stop thinking it. The thought strangled him, crushing his chest. The same panic he’d imagined in his sleep came to him again, and he couldn’t move.

Was this what intense anxiety felt like? Was this how Nicola felt every day of her life? Because, if so, he had just gained an entirely new level of respect for the woman.

He had to focus his mind on moving each limb as he got out of bed, though he was never completely sure that his feet ever hit the floor. This hurricane of emotions was not something his body or mind could cope with. If those emotions had merely been anger, impatience and disgust, he could deal with that fine. He did that every day.

But this was fear. And fear did not come to Malcolm Tucker. It never had done.

And because fear had never before come to claim him, Malcolm Tucker had reached middle age without ever having learned how the fuck he could ward it off. So now it took him over. He lost his ability to breathe as his chest grew tight.

His fear, his worry, that Nicola could end up grievously injured, was closer to the realms of possibility than Malcolm could accept. He knew all too well that James may never have relented on Wednesday night, and that if Nicola had not escaped, she could have been left in Intensive Care, or the morgue. It was terrifyingly clear to Malcolm that it was sheer luck and quick thinking that had allowed Nicola to save her own life that night.

But if Nicola were to be left here alone and James found his way into the house – or forced his way in – the consequences could be dire.

The police still hadn’t managed to apprehend James, after all. Who knew where he was? Who knew with whom he was staying? He was still a massive danger to Nicola; that was an idea that Malcolm could not tolerate. The fear that shot through him with that notion was too much for him to bear.

“Malcolm?” Nicola said, getting to her feet. Once again, he was extremely aware of just how small she was, at least in comparison to him. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come. Only some sort of strange choking noise came out. “Fuck,” she mumbled. “Okay, you’re having a panic attack, Malcolm,” she told him. “Sit down, and try and breathe.” He glared at her. “Breathe out,” she said. “Come on, let the air out. That’s why your lungs feel like they’re about to fucking explode.”

Malcolm sat forward; Nicola’s hand was rubbing circles on his back, and he tried to force the air out of his chest. “You’re safe. I’m safe. The kids are safe,” Nicola assured him gently.

Ella came into the room again, and set a glass of water on the bedside table. “Mum has these a lot,” she said. “You’ll need a drink of water.”

“Thank you, love,” Nicola smiled.

Ella returned that smile and sat down on Malcolm’s other side. She put her hand in his and her other on his arm.

He found it easier to breathe, though his muscles were still tense and his chest still knotted. Slowly, with Nicola and Ella’s help, his breathing slowed to a normal pace. He managed to turn and say to Ella, “Thank you.” He touched her shoulder. “It’s late, and you’re missing your film,” he said. “I’m fine.”

Ella stood up and handed him the glass of water. “Drink it. It’ll help.” He nodded and took a sip.

With Ella having gone back to her sister and her movie, Malcolm drank some more of the water. “How did you know what to do?” he asked Nicola. “How did you know what it was before I fucking did?”

“Been there, done that, got the t-shirt,” Nicola told him. “Welcome to the daily life of Nicola Murray. It’s fucking great fun, isn’t it?” she grinned. As much as he appreciated the effort to make him feel better, he had to wonder how she was capable of making light of such a feeling of utter dread.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he scoffed. “How the fuck do you cope?”

“It’s about getting on top of it, before it gets on top of me,” Nicola explained. “But sometimes, like what’s just happened to you, if the feeling of panic is acute, and extreme, there’s nothing you can do to stop it taking hold.”

“Christ, I’m a fucking idiot,” he spat out, his head in her hands.

Nicola’s hand took his face, not with particular gentleness, and turned it. “Don’t you _ever_ say that!” she said. And fucking hell, she was fierce about it. Her eyes shone with the intense passion of a woman trying to rescue him. More to the point, she was the woman who knew that, in this moment, he did need rescued. She was the woman who could never judge him for that.

He never could have foreseen that Nicola’s frustrating tendency for anxiety would be what allowed her to understand him better than anyone else he’d happened upon. “What was it, Malcolm?” she asked again. “What was that nightmare about?”

Malcolm redirected his gaze to the floor. “I was walking up the street,” he began, “and I saw James’ care in the drive. It was wet, dark. I got to the house but the door was locked. I heard screaming. The most gut-wrenching, fucking ear-splitting screaming. There was no way in. One of the kids showed up – Sophie – and opened the door. I threw him out the house but he’d-” Malcolm tried to explain, but he struggled to word it.

“What did he do?”

“You were lying there,” he said. “And you weren’t fucking breathing. The blood was fucking pouring out of you, out the mouth, the ears, nose, fucking head,” he recalled, pointing to his own temple. “You were gone. You were fucking-”

“Dead,” she finished for him.

His hands shook while his mind tried to push back the memory, but he couldn’t. He knew now he wasn’t scared of James fucking Murray. He could take that idiot on with one hand tied behind his back. He’d grown up hanging about fucking Drumchapel delinquents and fucking Milton lunatics, depending on which cousin he happened to be drinking with of a weekend. He could handle himself.

What frightened him was what he could lose to James.

He felt tears pouring down his cheeks, and vaguely noted that he was crying like a fucking fool again. This was stupid. _He_ was stupid. But he didn’t dare say so in front of Nicola; she was in the sort of mood to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Nicola stared into his face. She didn’t ask him to stop crying. She didn’t ask him to man up – though he now knew she fucking detested that phrase. She didn’t ask him to be strong for her.

No, Nicola Murray, ever the maverick, kissed his cheek and pulled him into her arms. “I am not dead, Malcolm,” she whispered lightly into his ear. “I am not going to die. You know this is a classic sign of anxiety problems, don’t you?” she added. “Your mind is jumping to the most extreme, devastating scenario, because you’re scared and you’re anxious, and your head doesn’t know what to do with it.”

“Don’t fucking psycho-analyse me,” Malcolm grumbled into Nicola’s chest.

“You know, when each of my kids were born,” Nicola said, “I was paranoid that they would die when I wasn’t paying enough attention. It was crippling. When Katie was first born, I couldn’t even turn my back on her to fill the washing machine. As soon as I couldn’t hear her, I panicked. I was out of my depth, and my mind made fucking sure I knew it. That’s half the reason I put them into childcare so early on, even before becoming a politician. I thought that someone who’d been trained could be trusted more than me not to let them die.”

She rubbed his back and sat him upright, and turned the lamp on. Briefly she got to her feet to turn the main light off, but she got into the other side of the bed. “What do you think you’re doing, Nic’la?” he demanded.

“Staying with you,” she said, pulling the duvet over her chest as she lay on her side. “You’ll feel better if you’re not alone. Trust me. I’ve gone through this every day of my life for over forty years.”

He climbed back into bed beside her, though he didn’t tell her whether she was right or wrong; he feared she was right, and he hated admitting that. He rolled over onto his side, aware that his nose had to be barely inches from Nicola’s. He could smell her, and that scent of shampoo, washing powder and a floral perfume came as some comfort, and a promise that she was there beside him.

Still, he felt the need to reach out and touch her.

His hand landed gently onto her waist. Her hand fell on top, her fingers interlocked between his. “I’m right here, Malcolm,” she said. “I’m right here. I’m alive. You don’t need to be scared.”

But he was frightened. He couldn’t shake that fear, and he was starting to fret that he never would. He drew her in, holding her in his arms. She did not withdraw; she wrapped her arm around him instead, her head on his chest. “Who’d have thought it?” Nicola murmured. He could hear that she was falling asleep, and was therefore liable to spout a load of shite.

“What?”

“The most terrifying person in government gives the best hugs in the world.”

Malcolm snorted. “Go to sleep,” he ordered her. “You must fucking need it if you’re that delirious.”

Her responding chuckle was the last noise she made before she fell asleep.

Empathy, affection, care, responsibility, protectiveness…were they a blessing or a curse? Malcolm wasn’t at all sure. How could he be sure when those sentiments had caused him both to spiral into the first anxiety attack of his life, and to end up with Nicola Murray in his arms, sound asleep, trusting him to be gentle with her?

Wasn’t it both a blessing and a curse? To have the opportunity to feel life deeply meant that he had to deal with the consequences. The consequence was that, sometimes, allowing himself to be submerged head first into the world of humanity meant that his own humanity was overwhelming.

Humanity. How odd it was, to have discovered he adored Nicola’s humanity, only to have her find his for him.

And just like that, everything Malcolm knew about the world disintegrated. The barriers of threatening behaviour and antagonism did nothing to protect him from Nicola Murray. Every time he wished he didn’t care, he cared more. Everything was upside down. The world was a total fucking mess. But this moment, lying here with Nicola, was right. That was the only thing he could be sure was right.


	13. Roscommon

“Mr. Tucker?” a woman called out. Malcolm looked up, met with a police officer in her mid-thirties. Her accent seemed to be Irish or Scottish. “If you’d just like to come through,” she smiled. Irish. Republic of Ireland, by the sounds of her.

They sat at the table in a hard, dark room. “I’m Detective Sergeant Caoimhe Roscommon. From County Cavan, not Roscommon,” she grinned. “We’ll have to record this, I’m sure you understand. Just be truthful, Mr. Tucker, and answer my questions in as much detail as you can. Even the smallest thing might help. It might take a while."

Malcolm shrugged. “Not like I’ve got anything better to do, and Nic’la’s busy with the funeral directors just now.” She turned on the recorder, and dictated her name, his, and all the case details.

“I understand, Mr. Tucker,” DS Roscommon began, “that you have some involvement in the case of the assault and actual bodily harm of Mrs. Nicola Murray. What is your relationship to Mrs. Murray?”

“She’s a colleague. A friend,” Malcolm allowed. “General drain on my sanity.”

“Do you have a good relationship with her?”

“Not at work. At work, she makes me want to throw myself off Tower Bridge,” he said. Given he was being interviewed by the police, he decided to be honest about it. Years of spinning had taught him that their fractious working relationship could be portrayed in the wrong way if he lied. “Just like most of the government Ministers. But outside of work, yes. We have a decent friendship.”

DS Roscommon stared at him for a moment. “Can you run me through the events of Wednesday, the fourteenth of October?”

“Um, yeah,” Malcolm said, sitting forwards slightly. “In the afternoon, I was at Number 10, and I got a call from Nic’la’s office. She was in a Cabinet meeting, and they didn’t know what to do. Nicola’s husband, James, he’d called Terri Coverley and told her to tell Nic’la that their eldest daughter, Katie, was killed in a car crash. Terri freaked out. She’s a wee bit useless at the best of times. So she called me. I headed over to DoSAC to meet Nic’la when she got out of the meeting, and to help her team sort a few things out. I told her what had happened, and we went to King’s College Hospital and identified Katie’s body.”

“Where was Mr. Murray?”

“He said he was picking up the other children from school,” Malcolm explained. “Which, in fairness, he did do. But he took them straight home and he got drunk, as I found out the next day.”

“I see,” DS Roscommon nodded, writing something down. “And what happened that night?”

“We went back to DoSAC to collect Nic’la’s stuff,” Malcolm recalled, “and I packed her off home with her driver.”

“So Mrs. Murray went home that night perfectly fine?”

“Well, apart from the part where her kid died out of nowhere.”

“Of course,” DS Roscommon sighed. “Did you hear from her at all?”

Malcolm rubbed his hands over his face and leaned his elbows on the table before answering. This was more stressful than he could have anticipated, going through all the madness in his head again. “Yeah, she called me in the early hours of Thursday morning.”

“Did she say why?”

“She said she’d walked out the house,” Malcolm explained, “and that she’d walked for miles without paying attention. She didn’t have the first clue where she was. Nic’la’s usually a bit scatter-brained, sure, but that should have set the alarm bells off for me,” he confessed, slightly ashamed he had not treated that act of Nicola’s with due concern. “She would never choose to do that. Anyway, we worked out she was in Lambeth, and I went to pick her up.”

“Lambeth?” DS Roscommon repeated, looking as surprised as he had felt when he had worked out that Nicola had been standing outside a Catholic school in Lambeth. She opened her file and frowned slightly. “But Mrs. Murray’s home is in Greenwich.”

“She said she’d walked for nearly four hours when I found her.”

“Did she say why she’d left her home?”

“Just that she’d had a row with her husband,” he replied. “Anyway, she begged me not to make her go home, so I said she could stay in my spare room, as long as she sent James a message to say she was fine but she was staying with a friend.”

He was having a tough time refraining from using his typically bad language, the further into this he went. It was difficult to talk about, knowing everything now he hadn’t known then. “What about Thursday?”

“I took her home,” Malcolm answered. “She was determined she was going to work – she has this thing about routine – so I took her home to see her kids and let her get changed.”

“How was Mr. Murray’s behaviour?”

“He wasn’t there. He’d buggered off and left the kids in the house on their own,” he grumbled. He was still furious with James for that. “So I came in, looked after the kids while Nic’la got changed. We left for work when her mum, Victoria, came round to babysit.”

He saw DS Roscommon scribble down Victoria’s name. “How were things at work?”

“Everything was fine. For once, Nic’la wasn’t causing blue bloody murder,” Malcolm grinned. “Honestly, if we hadn’t already known Katie had died, we would never have been able to tell. Nicola was pretending it had never happened. She only ever stormed out when I asked her the real reason she was out in Lambeth at three in the morning. We didn’t even figure out there was anything else amiss until Olly, one of her advisers, passed comment that she’d taken a lot of ibuprofen over the course of the morning.”

“How many had she taken?”

“Olly saw her take six,” Malcolm answered. “I later found out from Nic’la that it was eight.”

“Did you confront Mrs. Murray about the painkillers?”

“Obviously,” Malcolm frowned. “I was worried she’d do damage to her stomach. Ibuprofen isn’t exactly gentle, is it?”

“No,” DS Roscommon agreed. “I know what you mean. I once got one stuck in my throat. Burned like the Devil himself when it started dissolving.”

“Exactly.”

“When you confronted her about the dosage, did Mrs. Murray give any explanation or allude to any reason she might be in that much pain?”

“She wouldn’t say it outright. I’m still not sure she ever wanted to tell anyone,” he said, “but I put two and two together, and she spilled it when I asked her if James had hit her. She showed me the bruises. She was black and blue from her hips and thighs right up to her chest and back. Apparently, James has told himself Nic’la is to blame for Katie’s accident, so he kicked the shit into her,” he snarled, completely forgetting where he was for a moment. It was when DS Roscommon looked at him with a raised eyebrow that he added, “Sorry. Shouldn’t swear.”

She smiled slightly. “It’s alright. I think I’d be using some very…creative language if someone had done this to my friend,” she assured him. “That night, you were in the family home again?”

“Yeah,” Malcolm nodded. “Victoria insisted I go round for tea. To say thank you for helping with Nic’la and the kids, y’know.”

“How did that go?”

“Well, it was all grand until James came in and tried to take Ella, Sophie and Ben. Victoria tried to tell him not to, but he looked like he was gonna thump her. Nicola told him to leave the kids alone but he went for her. Victoria got between them; James knocked her over and grabbed Nicola. By the time I got Victoria into a chair, James was trying to force Ella out the front door and Nic’la was nowhere to be found.”

DS Roscommon shifted uncomfortably. Malcolm had to wonder if hearing it from him was somehow different to hearing it from Nicola and Emma. “How did you react?”

“I got Ella away from James. She ran to her granny. I managed to get James out the front door and locked and bolted him out. I went to the kids and Victoria, wanted to make sure they weren’t hurt. I asked Ella where her mother was. James had locked her in the cupboard under the stairs.”

“To prevent her from stopping him taking the children?”

“Because he knows it’s the worst thing he could ever do to her,” Malcolm scoffed incredulously. Hadn’t she had this from Nicola? Or was she just trying to verify it? “Nicola Murray is claustrophobic! I should know – it causes no end to problems at work. She can’t get in a lift. Always takes the stairs. Not very convenient when she doesn’t know how to lie and journalists overhear her on the stairs while she talks about DoSAC screwing up. No, James did that because he _knew_ the state it would put her into.”

She nodded and wrote down that Nicola was claustrophobic. “Were there any other incidents that night?”

“No,” Malcolm sighed. “Victoria asked me to sleep in the spare room in case he came back.”

“But he didn’t return?”

“No.”

“What can you tell me about yesterday, Friday the sixteenth of October?”

“It was a normal day to begin with,” Malcolm recounted slowly. “I went home, got changed, went to work. Watched the Prime Minister make a pig’s ear of his speech as usual. Got back to Number 10, and Olly Reeder phoned me and said Nic’la had asked him to ask me to meet her outside DoSAC. So I went. Her throat and face were bruised, and her lip was cut. She told me James had grabbed her on the street and pulled her down a close, demanded that he get in the house – Victoria had the locks changed. When Nicola said no, he choked her and smacked her across the face. I told Nic’la that it’d gone too far, and she needed to call the police. She did.”

DS Roscommon said, “You’re close to Mrs. Murray, aren’t you?”

“I am,” he admitted. “She always infuriated me with her behaviour at work. But I understand now, why she lacks leadership, and why she’s such an anxious person. I mean, I knew she wasn’t happy being married to James. I didn’t know until now that he’s been stamping all over Nic’la self-esteem for years.”

“Just one last question, Mr. Tucker,” DS Roscommon said. “Just for the record. I see you’ve had a cut to the lip, as well. Can you explain where that came from?”

Malcolm’s finger drifted to his lip. In all the chaos, he had actually forgotten Nicola had hit him. “That was on Wednesday, when I told Nic’la Katie was dead. She reacted very badly. Thought it was some sort of wind up. Just didn’t want it to be true, I guess.”

“I see,” she replied. “Well. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Tucker.”

Malcolm’s phone rang. It was Nicola. He held it up to DS Roscommon, and she turned off the recording equipment. “Nic’la?” he asked. “What’s up?”

“Is this Malcolm Tucker?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

“Yes,” he replied. Panic spread through him.

“We were going to call Mrs. Murray’s husband, but her daughter insisted it was him who did this,” the man said. “She said we have to call you.”

Malcolm’s stomach dropped to his feet. “What’s happened?”

“Nicola is on her way to Lewisham A and E,” he explained. “She’s hit her head, there’s a knife stuck in her thigh, and there’s a possibility her shoulder is dislocated. The children’s grandmother is looking after them but we were asked to call you in place of her next of kin.”

“Fuck!” he shouted. “I’ll be right there, okay?”

“Thank you.”

He hung up and said to DS Roscommon, “Nic’la’s en route to Lewisham Accident and Emergency,” as he grabbed his coat and hastily put it on. “James managed to get into the fucking house! Blow to the head, dislocated shoulder, knife in her thigh. Sounds like he’s tried to bloody kill her!”

“I’ll get some uniformed officers to her house and to the hospital,” DS Roscommon promised, standing up. “We’ll put out an appeal to try and find him. His charges just got a lot worse.”

Malcolm nodded and ran out of the building. He got into his car and drove, pretty much on auto-pilot, to the hospital. It took him nearly an hour, stuck behind Saturday traffic and people who didn’t know where they were going. Why did they drive in the city if they didn’t know where to go? It was fucking irritating beyond belief. There was no reason for tourists to have a fucking car in London, either. That’s what the fucking Tube was there for.

How could this have happened?

He asked himself that question so many times. Every time he stopped for a light or an idiot, in fact. He should never have left them this morning. He should have known James would find a way into the house. After all, he was smart enough to avoid the police, and determined enough to follow Nicola into the heart of the city.

“Fucking move!” he roared, as a hire car in front of him tried to make a decision on which way it was going to turn at the junction.

But eventually, after what felt like a week, he was parking his car in front of the Emergency Department at the hospital. He tried not to envisage what he would find inside. That was too painful. Instead, he stepped out of his car with an entirely blank mind.

It was the only way he could do this without descending into the same kind of anxiety attack he’d suffered last night. He wanted to be there for Nicola, not be the kind of patient’s friend the nurses had to calm down.

“Breathe,” he told himself. “Just fucking breathe.”


	14. The Greatest Curse on Earth

He ran. Never walked. When he got to reception, he was almost out of breath, between physical and emotional exertion. “Nicola Murray,” he said to the woman behind the desk, “she’s been taken here.”

“Can I ask your name?”

“Malcolm Tucker,” he answered. “Paramedic phoned me from the ambulance.”

“She’s in bay nine,” she told him. “Nurse Thomson will take you to see her.”

He nodded, and a male nurse led him through to a bed, where a woman lay. “She’s awake, as you can see. The knife missed all her arteries; the wound wasn’t very deep at all. The consultant managed to get it out without surgery. A few cuts on her arms. Presumably, she put up her arms to defend her chest. It’s a very common human defence mechanism,” Nurse Thomson explained. “We’re just waiting for someone to come and relocate the shoulder. She’s got a bit of a concussion and she’s on some very strong painkillers, so she might be a bit drowsy and groggy. Nicola has been very lucky.”

“Depends how you look at it,” Malcolm growled. “I don’t think Nic’la feels very bloody lucky, do you?”

“Very true,” the nurse sighed. “Um, just so you know, there’s police sitting across from her,” he nodded at two officers sitting in the chairs across the hall. “They’ll need to take a statement, but right now they’re more on the lookout for Nicola’s husband.”

“Good.”

Malcolm left the nurse. He wanted nothing more than to hear Nicola speak, to know she wasn’t permanently injured. But the closer he got, the worse it looked. There was a wound dressing on her temple, and she didn’t look particularly aware of what was going on. “Nic’la?” he cautiously said.

She smiled. “Malcolm,” Nicola mumbled as he sat down in the chair next to her bed, “you came. The nurse said Ella made the paramedic call you.”

“Of course I fucking came! Why wouldn’t I?” he scolded her.

“It’s an awful lot of trouble to put up with,” she replied, her head lolling to one side as she gazed hazily over at him. “I wouldn’t blame you for washing your hands of me.”

“Never,” he said. He took Nicola’s hand into his, and pressed his lips against her fingers. “They’re going to get him. They’ll find him, and it’ll be fucking attempted murder this time.”

Nicola sighed. “At least we got the funeral sorted,” she said. “Friday, at twelve o’clock. Greenwich Cemetery. The kids in Katie’s choir are going to sing. Flowers are all sorted.”

Malcolm shook his head slightly. “You’re un-fucking-believable.”

“What?”

“Your husband literally just tried to fucking murder you, and you’re just glad you got funeral arrangements sorted out before he came around and did his best to fucking stab you!” he ranted. For the second time in as many hours, a woman was raising an eyebrow at him.

“I’ve got no time to think about me,” Nicola said. “How are the kids?”

“With Victoria,” Malcolm brushed off the diversion. “And it’s not a case of not having time to think of yourself. You don’t fucking _want_ to think of yourself. But if you don’t do it now, you and everyone else will fucking suffer for it.” She stared blankly into his face. If he hadn’t been enlightened to the fact Nicola was actually fairly intelligent, he would have said she didn’t have the brains to know she had to face her own internal shit. But she did have the brains. “How do you feel?”

“Funny,” she smiled. “These painkillers they’ve got me on are fucking amazing.”

“Nic’la.”

She closed her eyes and exhaled. “Please don’t do this, Malcolm. I’ll only end up crying, and you just get uptight when I cry.”

Malcolm squeezed her hand. “D’you know what? For whatever fucking off the wall reason, I fucking care about you,” he murmured. “It’d be much easier if I didn’t give a fuck, but I do.”

“Malcolm,” she said, opening her eyes. “What-”

“I said I never hated you,” he cut her off. “I didn’t say that I always quite liked you. Yeah, you’re fucking annoying. If fucking up was an Olympic sport, you’d be overreaching your baggage limit in gold medals on the flight home. But you’re human. You’re fucking _normal_. You’re in this to do good. You’re not some fucking idiotic careerist. You’re ultimately kind, and loving, and well-intentioned…and I’d never really come across that before. I’d never come across a Cabinet Minister who was so…I was used to the women being fucking worse than the men for being self-serving and cut-throat. You came in and you were so _different_. And because you were so fucking different, because you were so soft and human and…well, I didn’t know how to fucking deal with you, did I?”

Nicola squinted at him like he was speaking fucking Gaelic. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked him.

“And then Katie died, and I didn’t have a choice. Someone had to be there for you. It wasn’t going to be fucking James. But when Victoria showed up and I had the choice, I still wanted to be there. And I was there. I was put into this little slot. Your whole family made room for me, gave me a role to play. I’ve never seen that happen; nobody’s ever done that for me, y’know?” he said, pulling Nicola’s hand upwards. When he spoke again, it was into the back of her hand. “I wanted to be…I wanted to be the man you could turn to. And the more you turned to me, the more that was stripped back, the more I saw of the real Nicola Murray, the more I…” he trailed away, unable to verbalise how he felt about Nicola.

In his head, he’d labelled it affection, care, fondness…everything except its proper name. Everything but that one little word it all added up to create. He’d gone out of his way to avoid using that word, even to himself. Especially to himself.

Nicola moved, trying to pull herself further upright. She groaned in pain. He stood up and steadied her when she looked like she might slip into a position that could worsen the state of her. “Nic’la, what the fuck are you doing?!”

She ignored him and pulled him down by the neck. Her lips grazed against his, catching him entirely by surprise. “Nic’la,” he mumbled into her lips.

“What?”

“Fuck it,” he smiled; he caught her lips and kissed her properly. If this was wrong, he never wanted to be right again. Her uninjured arm was around his neck, one of his hands holding her gently by the face. He pulled back and placed her hair gently behind her ear.

He sat down again, took Nicola’s hand and said, “What fucking happened?”

Nicola moaned slightly as she leaned back against the pillows. “The funeral director left,” she said, “and I went upstairs to get some painkillers. Two ibuprofen, then two paracetamol after two hours, just like you told me. Anyway, the doorbell rang. Sophie answered it.”

“James?”

“Yeah,” Nicola sighed. “He pushed past Sophie. I got downstairs, and he was waiting in the kitchen. He had Ben in his arms, screaming that he wanted Mummy. Poor boy, he was terrified,” she whispered, her voice breaking with emotion. “I tried to take Ben off him but he twisted my arm so far back he forced my shoulder out. Picked up the knife I used to slice up the cheese for their lunch, started waving it about like a fucking lunatic. Almost bloody stabbed me in the chest, and the stomach. There were a couple of very near misses. Ben was screeching and crying, Sophie was begging James to stop it…it was a fucking mess. Then Ella being fucking Ella, she ran in and tried to grab the knife. James dropped Ben – don’t worry, the nurse here told me the paramedic checked him over. He’s fine. But somewhere in between Ella trying to get the knife from James, me trying to get Ella away from the fucking knife, and James trying to get me without getting Ella, the knife went into my leg and I fell and smacked my head. That’s all I remember.”

“But he’s not there now?”

“No,” Nicola said. “Mum said Sophie said he legged it as soon as Ella picked up the phone to call an ambulance.”

“Ella made the 999 call?”

“James was hardly fucking going to, was he?” snorted Nicola.

Malcolm inclined his head in agreement. “ _That_ is a very fucking good point.” He paused for a moment, wondering if he should trouble Nicola more with what was to come. After a few moments, he concluded that now was as good a time as any. “You know Ella’s gonna have to make a statement, don’t you? She might have to testify in court.”

“I know,” Nicola said. At this thought, her resolve broke. Tears rolled down her face, and she immediately wiped them away. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Your husband just tried to kill you. You’re entitled to fucking cry.”

“It’s not that,” she wept. “My kids. My fucking kids. I’m supposed to protect them! They’ve endured more in the past four days than I could have ever dreaded they’d endure in their whole fucking lives! I’ve put them through so much! I’m so fucking stupid, Malcolm. I’ve let this happen. I’m just fucking stupid!”

Malcolm leaned in. “You haven’t put them through anything,” he said. “You’ve done everything you fucking can to protect them.”

A doctor came in through the curtains. “Hello, Nicola,” he smiled at her. “I’m Dr. Poole. How are you feeling?”

“Bit sore, bit woozy, bit grouchy,” she shot back at him. “Oh, and my husband tried to kill me! It’s been a wonderful day so far.” Malcolm shook his head to himself, grasping Nicola’s hand tightly. “What’s the verdict?”

“Well,” Dr, Poole said, taking a step towards the bed. “You’ve had a very lucky escape. The wounds to your leg and arms seem to be relatively shallow, and the stitches seem to be doing the job. There are no fractures around the shoulder, just a straight dislocation. You’ve got a mild concussion but no real damage.”

“Didn’t know there was much up there for me to damage,” Nicola joked.

“Nicola,” Malcolm warned. “Don’t you dare start fucking demeaning yourself.”

Dr. Poole ignored this exchange and continued, his tone gratingly cheerful, “So, if we get this shoulder back into place, we can send you home once the police have had a word.”

“Home,” Nicola repeated.

“I’ll be there,” Malcolm interrupted. “He can’t touch you with me there, I promise. I’d sooner let him fucking kill me than let him harm you or the kids.”

Dr. Poole smiled. “You’ve got a good ‘un there, Nicola,” he remarked. Malcolm glared at him. “Anyway, let’s get this shoulder back into its rightful place, shall we?” He put down Nicola’s file and positioned her. “Now, I’m afraid, despite the analgesia, this will hurt.” Nicola nodded, though her eyes and her grip on Malcolm’s hand betrayed how frightened she was by the prospect of this. “I need you to relax, Nicola, okay?” he asked of her. “I need your shoulder muscles relaxed or the joint won’t go back into the socket.”

Nicola dropped her shoulders, and Dr. Poole started to work Nicola’s shoulder back towards the socket. She screwed her face up in pain, her fingernails digging into Malcolm’s hand. With each passing minute, the pain Nicola allowed to show intensified, until she eventually shouted, “Argh!”

“And that would be that,” Dr. Poole smiled. “We’ll get you a sling and a prescription for some decent painkillers, and then the police can take your statement. You’re free to go home after that.”

“Lucky, lucky me,” sneered Nicola. Malcolm caught her eye. “Sorry, doctor. I shouldn’t take it out on you. Not your fault my husband makes the Joker look sane.” Dr. Poole grinned. “By the way, are any of my clothes intact, or are they all bloodstained and shredded?”

“’Fraid it’s the latter,” he replied as he wrote something down on Nicola’s file.

Malcolm stood up. “I’ll go and pick up some clothes,” he said, “while you tell the police what happened with James. I’ll check on your mum and the kids, too.”

The doctor left them, and Malcolm took the opportunity of privacy. “We have to keep quiet about this,” he reminded her, lifting their entwined hands. “It’ll be fucking disastrous if the press or James’ lawyers get wind of it.”

“I know.”

He smiled. Of course she knew. She wasn’t stupid. He stood up and picked up his coat, heading for the break between the curtains. But he stopped and turned on his heel. “We’ve made this more fucking complicated than it needs to be.”

Nicola, possibly because the painkillers and concussion were addling her ability to be serious, grinned up at him. “Simplicity is overrated.”

Malcolm shook his head but couldn’t help but smirk slightly. It was easy to forget that Nicola was a bit mad. But that madness was probably the thing that gave her the strength and energy to just keep going like she did. He went back to her and put his fingers in her hair. She ran her hand down his arm, resting her hand over his own, and said, “Why didn’t you say something before?”

“Dead child, mental case husband, three kids to look after,” he reeled off. “Any of this ringing any fucking bells, Nic’la?”

“Then why now?”

“Because you nearly fucking died,” he said quietly. “I nearly lost you. And I realised it might be a cliché but there’s a lot of truth in it. Life is too fucking short to not come clean, no matter how much of a fucking coward I am.” She rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand. “And I am a fucking coward with these things. Everything I said, it took all the little fucking courage I do have to tell you.”

Nicola scowled up at him. “You’re not a fucking coward.”

And that, _that_ right fucking there, was why he had fallen for Nicola Murray. When he spilled his guts, when he told her he’d reacted to her brush with death, when he told her that he hadn’t been brave enough to say anything before, she picked out his own self-deprecation and took the trouble to tell him she didn’t think he was a coward. Her priorities were all fucking wrong, in his opinion – being more troubled by his estimation of himself than the fact she’d come very fucking close to being buried with her daughter – but he loved that about her. In spite of everything, she had the compassion to make a point of doing what she felt was the decent thing to do.

He leaned down and kissed her, inhaling her scent, marred as it was by antiseptic and the hospital’s cleaning chemicals. When he pulled away, he pressed his lips to the side of her head that was free of a dressing, and stood upright once more. He knew now why Victoria could look at Nicola like she was the most astonishing thing ever to have walked this Earth. He was standing here doing it himself.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promised her.

When he left her, making his way out of the building, he couldn’t help but grin to himself. Everything was shit. Katie was dead. James was on the run after nearly killing Nicola. Ben, Sophie and Ella had to be fucking terrified. But he had what no longer felt like the greatest curse on Earth. She wasn’t a curse at all. In fact, he was starting to think he might have won the greatest prize on Earth. And now, it was his place to protect her and all those who came with her.


	15. Ella Murray

Malcolm rang the doorbell. It was Victoria who answered the door. “How is she?”

“She’s had a narrow escape,” Malcolm said as she let him into the house. “Can I speak to the kids?”

Victoria looked puzzled, and he fully expected to be told to fuck off and stop acting like he had any rights under this roof. But after a moment, she replied, “Sure. They’re in the living room. They’ve all had words with the police. Police are in the kitchen.”

He nodded and went through. “Hey, guys,” he sighed, sitting down between Ella and Sophie on the sofa. Ben sat on the floor with a book. “Ben, can you put the book down and listen to me a for a few minutes, please?” Ben instantly did as he was asked, and gave Malcolm his undivided attention. “Are yous okay?”

They nodded at different times, but all slowly, like they were still not very sure of what they’d just experienced.

“Is Mum okay?” asked Ella, staring absently out the window opposite.

“Your mum is going to be alright,” Malcolm assured her, touching her hand. “She’s a wee bit fragile, quite sore, very worried about all of you. You’ll need to be gentle with her, okay?” They didn’t answer, but he knew they understood. They were all bright kids. “But until we find out where your dad is, we need to lay a few ground rules down, hmm? Just to keep us all safe.” This finally persuaded Ella to look at him. “If there’s someone at the door, no matter what’s happening or where in the house we are, you get an adult to answer it. If the phone rings, you get an adult to answer it. If we’re out, you don’t go anywhere without your mum, your granny or me. If anyone approaches you, you tell one of us. We need to keep you safe,” he explained gently.

“Okay,” said Sophie. Like her sister, she had been staring straight in front of her.

Ella was turning her arm around. “There’s blood on my jumper,” she observed. Though she appeared deathly calm, her bright eyes told of her revulsion as they scanned over the rather large patch of blood. She lifted her other arm. “There’s one on my elbow, too.”

Malcolm stood up. “I’ve got to get some clothes for your mum,” he told her. “Come and we’ll find you some clean stuff, eh?”

She got to her feet and followed him up the stairs. They went into her room and, like her mother had done days before, stood still, not able to make any decisions on what she wanted to do. Malcolm went into the chest of drawers on which Ella’s television sat, and pulled out a pale blue t-shirt, a purple hoodie that had to be two sizes too big for her, and a pair of light grey leggings. “This do you?” he asked her gently. She nodded her head and took the clothes from him. “I’ll just be in your mum’s bedroom.”

He left her and closed her door. Nicola’s room wasn’t particularly tidy, but then neither was Nicola’s mind. After a little digging in her wardrobe, he found an overnight bag. He found he had to consider Nicola’s injuries to find something she was able to wear. It would have to be a sleeveless top – there was no way of forcing her bad arm into a long sleeve without causing her pain. So he found a loose sleeveless button-up shirt, made of some soft, floaty type of material. Her thigh was stitched and probably very painful, so the only option there was jogging bottoms; it was far, far too cold for shorts, even by his mental Scottish standards.

The bedroom door creaked. Ella stood there, freshly changed, looking like she didn’t know who, where or what she was. “Ella?”

She opened her mouth to say something, but all that came out was a sob. He threw Nicola’s joggers into the bag and crossed the room in three strides. Ella put her arms around him, clearly needing some sort of comfort, and to feel somewhat safe. He held her tight, pulling her up so she stood on his feet. There was nothing to do but let her cry. She needed to let it out, or she might end up in the same state he did last night.

He stroked her head. Ella Murray’s hair, like her mother’s, was a little bit bushy and wild, though a little darker. Perhaps Nicola’s hair had been darker before being dyed. “You’ll be alright, Ella,” he promised her. “Me, your mum, your granny, we’re all here to make sure you and your brother and sister get through all this in one piece.”

“You’re not going to walk away from us? You’re not going to hurt Mum?”

“Of course not. I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe. And I would never hurt your mum,” he said. He placed her a pace away from him, and wiped the tears from her face. “Do you want to come with me to take your mum home?”

“Can I?”

“If you want,” he said, putting her hair behind her ear. “You’re old enough and brave enough, I’d say. And your mum’ll be pleased to see you.”

Ella’s mouth turned upwards slightly. She was by no means sorted, out of the woods, but she had it in her to come out of the other end of this with her sanity intact. She went to the bed and looked into the open bag. She sniggered. “You’re not very good at this packing lark, are you, Malcolm?”

“What have I forgotten?”

“Bra, pants, socks,” Ella listed. “Shoes.”

“Aye, well, I wasn’t fucking finished, smarty pants,” he defended himself. Ella allowed him something that resembled a smile, but still shook her head, and went into the box at the end of her parents’ bed.

“These,” she said, pulling out a pair of very well-worn navy Sketchers, “are Mum’s favourite trainers.” She held them up for Malcolm to see, the distaste more than obvious in her expression. “They look a bit crap, but she reckons they’re the comfiest pair of shoes in the world.”

Ella dumped the trainers in the bag, and started to search the room for something while Malcolm found a bra, pants and socks, just as Ella had pointed out he needed to. “Here,” she said to him. “It’s Mum’s most ratty cardigan, but she loves it, and it’ll be easy for her to put on because it’s so big,” Ella reasoned.

“I like your thinking.”

“And a hairbrush,” Ella added, dropping a red brush into the bag. “I think that’s it.”

They went back down to the rest of the family. Malcolm pulled Victoria aside. “I’m gonna take Ella with me to collect Nic’la. I think it’ll do her good. If nothing else, I might get her to fucking speak in the car.”

“Yes, I think you’re right,” Victoria agreed. She examined his face; the intensity of her gaze made him quite uncomfortable. “What’s going on between you and my daughter?”

Now, there was a question and a half. The drive back to this house had given him time to remind himself of all reasons he should never have got involved with Nicola. He was in danger of upsetting her and her children. Who the fuck could predict James’ reaction if and when he discovered what was happening? He didn’t want to get hurt himself. He didn’t want to make anyone’s life harder than it needed to be. In short, he was wrong to allow his relationship with Nicola to evolve.

The only problem was this: he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

Malcolm listened to make sure the children were occupied and sat down on the third stair up. “Honestly, I’m fucking not sure.” Victoria gave him a glare of sheer scepticism, to which he confessed, “She kissed me. I kissed her. It’s all a bit of a fucking mess, really.”

Victoria sat down next to him. “Well,” she began, and Malcolm felt like he was eight years of age being sat down in front of the fucking headmistress. “I guess there’s a way to straighten that mess out. Instead of falling into the pit of macho doom and jumping about the place bleating about it being a fucking mess, you think about how you feel.”

“I’d rather fucking not, thanks.”

“I’d rather you fucking did,” Victoria retorted. “And since it’s my daughter and grandchildren your choices are going to have an impact on, I’d rather you fucking did it now.” Malcolm glowered under his eyebrows at her. “And this is the question that can tell you all you need to know: if Nicola were dead, how would you react?”

“Don’t make me think about that,” he snapped. “Don’t you think we’ve come fucking close enough to that particular version of reality today?” He put his head in his hands. “Did Nic’la tell you about last night?”

“She told me you had some sort of panic attack, as bad as the ones she used to take as a young woman.”

“Yeah,” Malcolm sighed. “Because I had a nightmare. I dreamt I found her dead, and I couldn’t fucking handle it,” he admitted. “So please, Victoria, please don’t make me fucking imagine that again. Not unless you feel like watching me fucking choke on my own fucking overinflated lungs.”

Victoria stared at him. “You can’t stand the idea of losing her?”

“No, I fucking can’t.”

“Well, that wasn’t the answer I expected,” chuckled Victoria. “I expected you to harp on about how life would be horrible without Nicola, and how much you’d miss her, and how you’d never know anyone like her.” Malcolm, completely dumbfounded, didn’t speak. “But you can’t even endure the notion of it ever happening. And _that_ , I’m afraid, speaks volumes. You’re a goner, my dear boy,” she smiled, patting his hand.

Malcolm looked down at his shoes. “How did this happen?” he muttered. “For months she’s made my life nothing but fucking difficult, and I couldn’t hate her for it. You know that party conference in Bournemouth?”

“Where you just about broke her senior advisor’s nose?”

“Yeah, that one,” he chuckled. “She got tired of my shit and stood up to me. Slammed the door in my face.”

“That’s Nicola, alright,” Victoria laughed. “She can be a stroppy cow when she wants to be.”

“It didn’t annoy me like it did when other people slammed doors in my face,” Malcolm recalled. “And a fucking lot of people have slammed the door in my face. It wound me up, but not because she’d pissed me off. It was more that she’d got _herself_ into such a fucking knot about one of my stunts any other politician would’ve dealt with by calling me a prick and finding a way around it.”

“It wasn’t about you. It was about her.”

“But now, since fucking Wednesday…”

“You know her now,” Victoria smiled. “You now know the same Nicola I know. Biggest pain in the arse on the fucking planet, but you can’t help but love her.”

Malcolm didn’t give a reply. Why did people insist upon using that word? He rose to his feet and beckoned Ella to put her coat on.

Once they were in the car and driving down the road, Malcolm spared the girl a quick glance. She looked exhausted. Frightened. Vacant. “Are you okay, Ella?”

Ella hesitated. “I never want to see Dad again. How could he? How could he try to kill Mum?”

“He’s angry,” Malcolm said. “I’m in no way defending him, but I’m not sure he’s really in his right mind.” When Malcolm looked around at her for a second time, she was frowning. “That’s no excuse for what he’s done to you and your mum. For that, he should and most likely will go to prison.”

“If they ever find him.”

“They will.”

“Did you mean it?” Ella asked, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “Did you mean it when you said you’ll do your best to keep us safe?”

“Yes.”

“You’re nicer than I thought you’d be.”

Malcolm smiled slightly, wondering what tales Nicola had told them of his bad behaviour. “You know, Ella, you can tell me anything. You can come to me with whatever might be bothering you.”

Ella fell silent, and Malcolm left her to her own thoughts for a while. He felt for the girl. She’d been through a massive trauma today; she’d probably saved her mother’s life by getting in between Nicola and James. Ella had been forced to be an adult at the age of twelve. She’d seen more than she should ever have been expected to see, and had been something of a saviour. He was hugely proud of her for how she handled it.

She had earned the right to walk into that hospital, look her mother in the eyes, and know that she had been the one who saved a life. Yes, she was a child. Yes, she deserved to keep whatever innocence she had left. But Malcolm didn’t think protecting her in cotton wool would do anything to help her. She was more than able for this.

Malcolm parked the car, grabbed Nicola’s bag and went to the passenger side door. He opened it and allowed Ella to step out. She glazed up at the imposing building, and he knew that the reality that she was walking in there to see her mother had just hit her – and he could tell from the expression on her small face that she didn’t know what she might see, and she didn’t like that one bit. He held out his arm and said, “You’re not on your own, Ella.”

Together, they paced slowly and deliberately into the hospital, and were directed to Nicola. She was sitting with her legs hanging over the side of her bed, arm in a sling, paper prescription bag in her hand, upright and anxious to get home to her children. Malcolm waved at her, and when Nicola spotted who was on his arm, her face lit up. As soon as they were close enough, Nicola gathered Ella into her working arm and kissed her head, tears falling silently down her cheeks. “My sweet, brave, wonderful girl,” she cried, her words muffled by Ella’s thick hair. Ella pulled Malcolm in with her free arm, and suddenly he was holding both Ella and Nicola close to him.

And though he made sure Nicola and Ella did not see him, he allowed the lump in his throat to break, and quietly cried. Not because he was upset, or angry, or sad, but because the emotion had welled up to the point it shattered the dam. He cried because he was appreciated and welcome, and because he’d never really cared about anything as much as he cared about them. The whole experience was bizarre, and a little frightening. And Nicola was right – wasn’t it better he cried when he needed to? He couldn’t bear the idea that he might bottle it up and then one day, when something went catastrophically wrong, he would snap and become like James.

As the tears escaped him, so did some of the anxiety and the fear, and the knot in his chest he’d been carrying all day started to unravel. It was an amazing thing, and without Nicola, he’d never have known that this was what he needed.


	16. Chocolate Cake and Pills

The next day, Nicola lasted until half past eleven before she started to whinge. “This is ridiculous,” she snapped, turning off the television. “What are we fucking doing, cooped up in here? There’s no food in the fridge, none of us have seen proper daylight in days and we’re all bloody miserable! All because we’re scared of James fucking Murray! It’s one thing staying in to grieve for Katie, but that’s not why we’re fucking doing it! Katie would want us out there, enjoying food and air and everything we take for granted. This is because James has us hiding like _we’ve_ done something fucking wrong! And I know he’s stalking me, I know that! But I can’t hide forever, waiting here for him to get in the house again!”

“That, and the fact you’re a temporary invalid,” Malcolm dared point out. It was easily seen how much strength Nicola had regained overnight – that glare was enough to freeze wildfire.

The children stared over at them, clearly taken aback by their mother’s loss of patience for the situation. “No, seriously, Malcolm,” Nicola said earnestly, “we can’t keep ordering takeaway. We’re going to _have_ to leave the house during the week to get funeral outfits. I’m going to have to go to work-”

“No, you’re fucking not!” Malcolm interrupted. “And not least because I’m not carrying you up the stairs!”

“I’ll manage the stairs,” she rolled her eyes at him.

“There’s no way they’ll allow you to work in this state, Nic’la.”

He knew she knew this. However, he also knew she did not like idea that James could be the thing that prevents her from going about her life, and that included going into the DoSAC office on Monday morning as usual. On the other hand, now was not the time to argue over it, particularly in front of the kids.

He sighed and stood up, and grabbed the notebook and pen from the sideboard. Handing it to Nicola, he said, “Make a list and we’ll go to the shop.”

And so it was that at one o’clock, Malcolm was helping Nicola out of his car in the supermarket car park. She’d been given a crutch by the hospital but was infuriatingly refusing to put it to any use. She was in a lot of pain – Malcolm and anyone else with a pair of eyes and a fucking brainstem could see that – but she was hobbling along unaided.

When all else failed her, Nicola seemed to survive on sheer obstinance. She walked next to Malcolm, Ella pushing the trolley ahead of them with Sophie and Ben next to her; it was the only way he could both keep an eye on all four of them and not cause gridlock in the shop by making Nicola walk in front of the trolley.

When Ella stopped the trolley to choose some apples, Malcolm took the opportunity to look around him. There was something that made him uneasy; this was asking for trouble. In the sea of faces, he saw none he knew, not that he had any reason to happen upon anyone he knew here.

They got as far as the bread aisle before Nicola began to grow weak. “I wish you’d use that fucking thing they gave you at the hospital,” he sighed. He linked his arm with hers and let her put her weight on him.

“Mum, can we have a cake?” Sophie asked.

“Please!” Ben chipped in, putting on his most angelic expression. That boy had his mum wrapped around his finger, and he knew it.

Nicola smiled. “ _If_ you can all agree on which one, you can have a cake.”

Malcolm shook his head and whispered into Nicola’s ear, “They run rings around you.”

“Let them. It’s only cake,” she murmured. “God knows I’d give anything to have Katie give me the run around one last time.”

“Soft touch,” he smirked.

He watched and listened as the children diplomatically weighed up the pros and cons of each cake. They decided that even they could not eat a big cake, so that ruled out all the large party cakes and traybakes. Sophie, Malcolm discovered, loathed jam, so anything with that in the middle was out. Ben hated sultanas and currants, so anything containing those was out. Ella couldn’t stand lemon – apparently, it reminded her of being at Auntie Jayne’s house – so, lemon drizzle was a no-go.

In the end, with zero fighting or arguing and an impressively fair and grown-up discussion, they settled on a small chocolate cake, decorated with white chocolate curls. The fact it was Katie’s favourite sealed the decision.

Nicola’s beam was one of pride, though Malcolm still found the idea the Nicola Murray managed to produce such well-balanced offspring a little difficult to believe.

“You know they’re going to want ice-cream now, don’t you?” Malcolm grinned.

“Sophie won’t. She hates the stuff.”

Malcolm moved his arm to sit around Nicola’s waist, feeling this was a much more efficient means of helping her walk. As Ella sent Ben to the bottom shelf for bread rolls, and Malcolm was sure nobody was watching, he pressed a kiss onto Nicola’s jaw. “Stop it,” she hissed, slapping her hand against his stomach. She smiled as she did so.

At the end of the aisle, Ella manoeuvred the trolley, but froze. She looked over her shoulder at her mother and Malcolm, terror spreading like ivy over her face.

Malcolm acted as quickly as his thought process allowed. He placed Nicola’s hand onto the trolley handle so she had something to lean on, passed his phone discreetly to Ella, and stepped in front of them. He stood between them and James.

“What the fuck are you doing with _my_ wife and children?” James sneered.

“You mean the wife your children had to stop you murdering?” Malcolm retorted. “You, mate, are a waste of skin. Your daughter dies, and what’s the first thing you do? Comfort your children? Hug your wife? Think about what Katie might have wanted for a funeral?” he shouted. He could not hold this back. Not after witnessing first-hand the damage this pathetic excuse for a man had done. It was like his blood rushed upwards with his rage, straight to his heart. It was only his head that stopped him from physically attacking James.

“Police,” Malcolm heard Ella whimper into the phone. “We’re at the Sainsbury’s at-”

“No. No, you get drunk. You kick the fuck out of your wife. You walk out on your fucking children, knowing full well their mother has fucking fled from the house in fear for her fucking life! Tell me, do you really think Katie would’ve wanted this? Would she have wanted you to break the law, batter her mum?! Do you think she’d have accepted you fucking stabbing her mother?!”

People were staring, but Malcolm didn’t have the space in his head to care. His mind was preoccupied trying to keep his heart at bay.

James’ fist flew through the air, but Malcolm had been waiting for it. He blocked it with his arm and punched James on the nose – just, as he momentarily recalled, as he had once done to Glenn – and he stumbled. Malcolm caught James’ elbow with his hand, the upper arm with his other hand, and locked it behind James’ body. Malcolm lifted his knee into James’ arse, whose knees buckled underneath him.

It was over. James was on the floor with a bloody nose, legs outstretched, arm twisted behind his back, with Malcolm making fucking sure he could not get back up.

The police appeared after a couple more minutes. They held James. They asked Malcolm a few questions. They already knew everything else, so this turned out to be relatively simple. The officer advanced on James.

“James Murray,” said the officer in charge, “I am arresting you for assault, actual bodily harm, and the attempted murder of Nicola Murray. You do not need to say anything. Anything you do say may be given as evidence in a court of law…”

They watched as James was led away. Everyone surrounding them slowly returned to going about their business.

Nicola didn’t speak. The hand that wasn’t held up in a sling clutched at her stomach, like she was going to be sick. Her face had drained of its colour, and upon it was an expression of intense fear and dread. She was struggling to breathe. And now he knew what this was, and he knew how to help.

He put his hands on her face and tilted her head back, “You are safe,” he whispered to her. “He can never touch you again. So, I need you to try and breathe for me, okay?” She nodded her head, probably knowing as Malcolm had done that it did no good not to breathe, but what was the point in breathing when it was all falling apart? “Breathe out, Nic’la,” he said to her. “You need to let the air out of your lungs, remember?”

He watched her chest fall, and knew she was going to be okay.

“Just breathe slowly,” he said.

And after a few minutes of controlling her breathing back into a normal rhythm, and the reminder that she and her children were now safe from harm, she returned to as normal as Nicola Murray ever could be. She took her weight off the shopping trolley and transferred it onto Malcolm. “That’s it, isn’t it?” she murmured. “The end of everything. The end of my marriage.”

“Yes,” Malcolm replied simply.

She leaned into his chest, and he held her close, knowing that Nicola’s universe had shifted the moment the police had taken James into their custody. He kissed her head and said, “Are we finishing the shopping?”

“Fucking right we are,” Nicola answered. “And you can add a bottle of wine to that list.”

“No alcohol on those painkillers, Nic’la,” he reminded her sternly. She ignored him. He tried not to worry too much about it. She was, after all, a grown woman, capable of her own decisions. It just so happened some of her decisions tended to be a bit shit.

In the car, once all the shopping was in the boot and all the children strapped in, Ben spoke for the first time since seeing his father in the shop. “Where did you learn how to fight, Malcolm?”

Malcolm looked in the rear-view mirror. Ben wasn’t scared or intimidated. He was curious. Interested. “When I was about seventeen, I worked for a summer on the Isle of Skye before university,” he explained. “I got friendly with a family of Travellers. They taught me how to fight.”

Nicola stared at him disbelievingly. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” he laughed at her incredulous reaction. “I spent a summer working in a hotel outside Portree, saving up some money to take to university. That family pitched a camp nearby. They had twins – a girl and a boy only a few months older than me – and a boy a good couple of years older.”

Nicola shook her head with a grin, and Ben looked at his sisters in awe.

They packed the shopping away when they got home, and Ella took Ben and Sophie upstairs to help her build some massive Lego model she was working on. Malcolm sat down on the sofa with Nicola, and put his arms around her. “We should phone your mum,” he suggested, “tell her James is with the police.”

She tilted her head back to see his face. “Are you okay?” she asked him.

“Am _I_ fucking okay?”

“Yes. You’re the one that fought him.”

“I did say I’d protect you.”

“I know, but-”

“But nothing.”

She kissed him fiercely, like she was frightened he might vanish into the sofa; though he knew something more sinister lurked beneath that intensity, he returned her kiss, letting her able hand wander up his chest and onto his neck. But as her kisses became more urgent, and her breath more ragged, Malcolm knew he had to stop her – everything else aside, if sex was where she was headed, she was not even remotely fit for it. He’d have been too fucking scared of ripping the stitches in her leg and arms to allow it to happen.

Her fingers knotted into his hair and she let a low whimper escape her. Her tears fell onto his face.

“Nic’la,” he warned her.

“Malcolm,” she answered, still kissing him with a great deal of force for a woman carrying so many injuries. He found her face with his hands and pulled away from her. “Don’t,” she pleaded. “Just kiss me.”

He pressed his lips against hers, but only briefly.

It didn’t have the desired effect.

She completely broke down. There was no consoling her. She did not cry in any way that suggested she had the ability to stop. But he could not help her until she fucking calmed down enough to tell him what was going on in her head.

Malcolm kissed Nicola’s cheek. Her forehead fell against his, their faces touching while Nicola cried. The sight of her broke his resolve; he found himself quietly crying with her, and for her, his heart cracking with hers. With someone crying alongside her, Nicola seemed to gradually calm herself, perhaps because she knew she was not alone in being completely overwhelmed. She fell silent, though her tears did not stop flowing.

“I can’t see a way forward,” she confessed. “I can’t see life after this. Malcolm, I don’t think I can survive this.”

“You can survive this, Nic’la,” he assured her. “Trust me. And when you feel like you can’t, you’ve got me, haven’t you? And your mum. You don’t need to be alone.”

Nicola eyed him with fear. There was something she was holding back. Something she did not want tell him, and he couldn’t help but think anything Nicola didn’t want to tell him was probably something he should have known. “What is it, Nic’la?” he asked her. “What’s happened?”

“I…” she hesitated. “Last night, while you were sleeping…”

Malcolm pushed her back a little so he could look her straight in the eyes. “What?”

“I sat in the bathroom,” she whispered. “And I was going to…”

He searched her face, but all he found was anguish and dread.

“I sat there with the painkillers,” she told him, “and I was going to take them all.”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t let his shock manifest anywhere Nicola could see it. Instead, he calmly asked her, “Why?”

“I couldn’t face another day of being terrified,” she explained. “I couldn’t handle my heart breaking for Katie. I just couldn’t see today and think it was worth it. And I knew you were here, and I knew you and Mum wouldn’t let anything happen to my kids. It was a moment of madness, but I was so close.”

“What stopped you?”

“I remembered how I felt when I saw Ella at the hospital yesterday,” Nicola sighed. “I remembered how I felt when you kissed me. I remembered having my son sleeping next to me. I remembered the joy on Sophie’s face when I woke her up and promised her chocolate milk. I remembered how it was to feel strong, like I could do anything in the world, and how it felt to be content, and to love, and to have someone love me.”

“Hold on to that,” he implored her. “Whatever happens, you hold on to that. You are strong. You are loved.”

Malcolm gently pulled her head under his chin and let out a low sigh. He’d honestly thought she’d been coping. Indeed, perhaps she had been coping until last night. Perhaps she really was made of steel. But even steel cracked when enough pressure was exerted onto it.

He should have noticed. There had to have been some sort of sign, but even now as he raked through his memory, he could not find it. Maybe there hadn’t been any sign. Maybe she’d just woke up and found everything she’d gone to sleep managing to deal with was suddenly insurmountable.

Nevertheless, he had to be more careful. He had to pay closer attention. No matter how strong Nicola was, she was only human. And though Malcolm revelled in her humanity – the love, the compassion, the ferocity – he’d allowed himself to overlook one thing: Nicola’s humanity, and indeed her anxiety, meant she felt everything to a greater degree. Fear was terror. Happiness was ecstasy. Anguish was torture. And for Nicola, to be overwhelmed wasn’t to panic. It was to drown. And that was something Malcolm could not afford to forget.


	17. A Replacement Scottish Secretary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I don't usually attach messages to chapters, but this is a one-off to say thank you for the feedback. I thoroughly enjoy writing this - it tests the bounds of what I think I'm able for. Also, I'm planning a bit of a sequel for after the end of this, if I can get the kinks sorted out. Anyway! Enough of me. Onwards to the madness!

“Do you think you might try it again?”

The question had played on his mind all afternoon and all evening. It burned through his mind, knowing that Nicola had been within inches of taking her own life, and that if she had chosen not to tell him, there was no way he ever could have known about it. What if one day she really did it? He knew as well as anyone else that the only way to know was to ask, and hope he could make Nicola feel safe enough to tell him.

For the first time, Malcolm was in Nicola’s bed. Last night, he’d slept in the spare room again, mostly so as not to alert the children to the fact their mother had got herself involved with Malcolm. But tonight, Nicola’s safety was a priority, and if she left her bed, he wanted to be able to feel her move.

Nicola turned her head on her pillow, staring at him with a false bewilderment.

“Suicide,” he clarified. “Is it something that still appeals to you?”

“I don’t know,” she answered; Malcolm was quietly glad of her honesty. It made discussing things with her mush easier. “I mean, not right at this very second. But, you know, it’s a bastard. It kind of just…”

“Hits you,” he finished for her.

“Yeah.”

He shifted onto his side and groped around for her hand, and interlocked their fingers. “When it hits you, you need to tell me,” he said. “Don’t be embarrassed, or scared. Just tell me.”

Nicola smiled slightly. “It’s so strange, you know. You’re the last person I’d have expected to say that.”

“Well, I’ve seen what fucking happens when people don’t say anything,” he answered before he could stop himself. He realised too late that his tone was harsh, and that he’d snapped rather than give Nicola patience and kindness. There was no reason for him to have felt the sharp twist of the dagger that caused him to snap at her; he’d managed to put all that out of his mind for decades.

“Malcolm?”

“It’s nothing,” he lied.

“It’s fucking something,” retorted Nicola.

Malcolm watched her curiosity and concern rise from her mouth to her eyes, until it shone so bright there was no way he could lie to her. “When I was sixteen, my dad shot himself,” he mumbled, barely hearing the words himself. “This was before Dunblane, obviously, when they still let people who shouldn’t have guns fucking have them.”

“Oh, Malcolm, I didn’t-”

“There’s no reason you would have known,” he cut her off. “Nobody fucking knows.”

“You said you went to the Isle of Skye when you were seventeen,” Nicola recalled. “Is that why? Did you need to get out of Glasgow for the summer?”

“I needed to get away from my family for the summer,” he confessed. “God knows I love them, but we have very different ways of dealing with death. Mainly that they’re shit at it, and I couldn’t cope with losing my dad and having their shit grieving methods fucking forced upon me.”

Nicola gazed at him in wonder, like she’d never before laid her eyes upon anything so amazing. “I’ll tell you,” she said. “I swear, Malcolm. If it hits again, I will tell you.”

Glad he wasn’t going to be pressed for more details, he kissed her and turned off the lights. Malcolm briefly wondered how he was going to stop Nicola from going to work tomorrow, but then he realised Nicola hadn’t set an alarm for six in the morning. She’d set it for half past seven, and therefore could not have been doing anything beyond getting the kids up for school. Victoria was coming around for eight to take them all to school.

He, however, knew he was in for a rough ride at work. There was, in his absence, bound to have been a shit storm about the attempted murder of the Secretary of State for Social Affairs and Citizenship, and there probably had been a report or two about his altercation with James Murray. His only saving grace there was that nobody could see him as the aggressor – James had thrown the first punch, and Malcolm had been protecting an injured woman and three pre-teenaged children. The only snag was what he was doing there with Nicola in the first place.

He supposed he could just say that Nicola was vulnerable and even he would not leave a grieving mother at the mercy of her murderous husband. He was a halfway decent man, and that was the way to spin his actions to the press, should they ever get wind of it.

* * *

 

When he finally did arrive at Number 10 the next morning, he was spared the dreaded bollocking for the weekend’s events. He had bigger fish to fry: the Scottish Secretary had resigned, albeit under a cloud, and the only suitable candidate to replace him was a very green young woman, who was MP for Ross, Skye and Lochaber, and was likely to have little interest in the job.

The challenge of persuading a thirty-one-year-old mother of two to uproot her life to become Scottish Secretary was at least a distraction from his own impending doom.

When she stalked down the corridor of Number 10, towards his office, she was on the phone. “Christ, ye’d want a deek at thon shan cowie. Moich tae the world,” she was saying. Malcolm frowned. For some reason, he knew that was an insult, and that it was directed at him. “Cho, Euan.” She hung up and stepped through the door Malcolm was holding open for her.

“Bella Whyte!” he said, keeping his tone upbeat. “How are you?”

“Better than you, if the news is anything to go by,” she retorted, her harsh blue eyes burning through him. “Apprehending a wanted man is a new one, even for you.”

“He’s getting what’s fucking coming to him, and that’s the main thing,” Malcolm pointed out, slightly defensively. “Anyway, I take you’ve heard about John Farquarson?”

“Oh, yes,” Bella grumbled, sitting down in the chair opposite Malcolm. “One of our only three MPs in Scotland and he turns out to be fucking his own council over. Fucking half-witted bastard.”

Malcolm paused to stare at her for only a moment. “Yeah, well. That leaves us with two options. Auld Charlie Soutar, born circa 1715, still thinks it’s 1745, or you.”

“Me?” she replied, stunned. “But I’m backbench. I might as well be fucking invisible. I represent an area where we mostly just want the buses to Inverness to actually show up, the internet to fucking work from time to time, and for tourists to stop driving like fucking defective pannies!”

“Pannies?” he asked, squinting slightly at Bella.

“Never mind,” she quickly brushed aside his curiosity. “Look, Malcolm, I have a husband who’s trying to run a hotel in Portree. I have two children, one of whom has just started Primary 2, and the other is only two years of age! And you want me to uproot them all and drag them down here?!”

“Yes, I do fucking want you to!” Malcolm said, on his feet and leaning across the desk before he knew it. “We can’t put a fucking English MP in charge of Scottish affairs. Holyrood would go off their fucking nut, and rightfully so. That leaves you or Soutar. He’s no fucking use, and putting him in charge of Scotland would make us look fucking retarded!” The fact Soutar was in favour of Scottish independence wasn't even the problem. If it were only that, Malcolm could have made him toe the party line. It was the fact he was well-known for being slightly unhinged in most aspects of his life that posed the fucking problem.

“I’m flattered!” Bella snorted. “So what you’re saying is that I don’t have a fucking choice?”

“You do have a choice,” he said. “You can either choose to take a job for which we all know you’re more than fucking able, or you force me to give it to Soutar or an English MP, and start preparing for an election you _will_ lose because we’ve put a notoriously fucking insane Scottish nationalist in the job, or a fucking Englishman! Either way, we’re fucked. Soutar is bad enough, but if we’re forced to make a fucking _English_ MP Scottish Secretary, the union – at least under our government – is in serious fucking peril!”

Bella watched him intently. “Okay, in theory, Euan can run the hotel from London and look in on the odd weekend. He’s got a fucking brilliant manager running the front-line stuff. He’s mainly doing the books and the ideas. But childcare, Malcolm! After half past three, Eilidh has to come home! Alasdair is two, for fuck’s sake. Euan can’t work from home and look after Alasdair, and I’m not having my toddler son in some fucking snobby nursery all fucking day!”

“Get an au pair.”

“What?” Bella said. Obviously, such a simple and old-fashioned solution to the childcare problem threw her.

“My sister did it when she left school,” he explained. “She fucked off to the Republic of Ireland for a year. In return for helping out with childcare, she had a home, she was fed, she was paid and she got to explore Ireland. Loads of girls – and guys – are chomping at the fucking bit for that opportunity, especially in the heart of London. And most of them only choose that way of doing it if they like kids.”

Bella smiled. He’d got through to her; she could see it was possible to keep her family and be Scottish Secretary. “I’ll talk to Euan,” she allowed, “and I’ll get back to you.”

And she did. Three hours later, she returned and said that she would be accepting the position of Scottish Secretary, effective at the beginning of next week. Malcolm wasn’t sure if he was looking forward to having someone remotely competent in the job, or if he was dreading locking horns with Bella Whyte – a woman so fundamentally coarse and powerful that she was sure to be nothing but a challenge to control.

When he left work, he went to Nicola’s via his own home, stopping to pick up mail, and to pack some clothes and essentials. He’d decided with Nicola that he would stay with her until at least after the funeral. He was taking Wednesday, Thursday and Friday off work to help her out with the children and with Katie’s funeral. So, he really only had tomorrow left to work this week. It was sure to be eventful though – even this idiot of a Prime Minister couldn’t be distracted indefinitely from news reports concerning his staff getting into a fight in a supermarket. Malcolm only hoped the stress of the Livingston by-election would do the job until he returned next Monday, when the worst of it would have blown over.

He got into Nicola’s house and sat down at the dinner table. Victoria had cooked pasta carbonara, and he was fucking starving. “How was work?” asked Nicola.

“Scottish Secretary resigned,” he said between mouthfuls of pasta.

“Farquarson?” Nicola frowned. “Why?”

“He was ripping off West Lothian Council to the tune of fifty grand a year,” Malcolm replied. “Something told us it was time for him to go. Now I’ve got the bloody Livingston by-election to plan up there too. I’ve managed to delegate most of that, thank fuck.”

“Christ,” laughed Nicola. “Oh, don’t tell me you’ve got Soutar in to replace him? That man's away with the bloody fairies, I swear.”

“Nope,” Malcolm said. “Bella Whyte.”

“Ross, Skye and Lochaber? How did you swing that? She always said she’d never take a Cabinet job.”

“She realised it could be done,” he shrugged.

“She’s young,” observed Nicola. “What is she? Thirty?”

“Thirty-one.”

Nicola tilted her head, probably considering the pros and cons of such a young Scottish Secretary. “Mind you, she’s fucking terrifying. I wouldn’t cross her.”

“Exactly,” Malcolm said grimly. “The opposition is petrified by the sight of her. It’s brilliant.”

The best thing about Bella was that her name suggested a mild young woman, perhaps outgoing, friendly and bubbly. People were always shocked to be faced with a startlingly severe and formidable woman, her wild blonde curls untamed, and her striking blue eyes and flat teeth giving the impression that her smile was a cover for her judging your every move. Even Malcolm was a little afraid of her, not that he would ever admit to that.

For the rest of the night, he put Bella out of his mind, and spent time with Nicola’s family. To Nicola’s outrage, he sat in the living room and taught the kids all the playground rhymes he’d had at their age. “There once was a man who peed in a pan, the pan was too wee so he peed in the sea,” Malcolm recited, “the sea was too wide, so he peed in the Clyde, and aw' the wee fishes swam up his backside!”

Ben fell backwards in hysterics of laughter. Nicola grinned, resigned to the fact she had attached herself to someone from the rough end of Glasgow, and this was what came with him. “Oor wee school’s the best wee school, it’s made fae bricks and plaster,” he sang. “The only thing that’s wrang wi’ it’s the baldy heided Master. He goes tae the pub on a Saturday and he goes tae the church on Sunday, tae pray tae the Lord tae gie him strength tae belt the weans on Monday!”

“Malcolm!” shouted Nicola, her mouth open in shock. “That’s harsh!”

“Just ‘cause you never got belted,” he smirked. “You were probably a right little goody-two-shoes,” he teased, as he winked at Ella. They all knew she would rise to the bait.

“Actually, I’ll have you know I got twelve of the ruler in one lunchtime!” protested Nicola indignantly. “Six for fighting Carol Stone, and another six for fighting Linda, her cousin. We didn’t have that hideous tassled strap thing the Scots had, thank Christ. They used an old wooden ruler on our hands.”

Victoria, who’d, until now, remained relatively silent, said, “You never told me you got the ruler for fighting.”

“I didn’t really want it twice, did I?”

“Fair enough,” Victoria conceded. “You’d have only got the slipper if you’d told me. Serves you right for picking a fight.”

Malcolm grinned and remembered a song Victoria might have had something to say about. “Ye canny shove yer granny aff a bus, oh, ye canny shove yer granny aff a bus. Ye canny shove yer granny, ‘cause she’s yer mammy’s mammy, oh, ye canny shove yer granny aff a bus.”

Victoria glared at him. “I should fucking hope not!” she exclaimed. Malcolm was pleased to find that, despite the superficial austerity of Victoria’s expression, the spark in her eyes gave her away. She was enjoying herself, and that was the point of this exercise. For Malcolm, at least.

Nicola, however, drew the line when the children decided they liked, “Ma mate Billy had a ten-foot willy, and he showed it tae the lass next door. She thought it wis a snake and hit it wi’ a rake, and now it’s only five-foot-four.”

“Jesus Christ, Malcolm!” she shouted, smacking him with a cushion.

“You’re laughing inwardly,” he accused her, pointing and waving his finger in front of her face. She was indeed stifling laughter; like any good parent when their child picked up something they probably ought not to have, she found it fucking hilarious, all the while trying to play the stern mum. It didn’t take much to make her buckle. Within seconds, she was in hysterics of laughter. It served as a stark reminder that Nicola did everything in extremes, even laughter.

Even as Victoria was leaving, the kids were upstairs getting ready for bed, gleefully singing rhymes Malcolm knew Nicola would happily have thumped him for teaching them.

“You,” Nicola rounded on him as he helped her into her bedroom, “are _awful_.” He grinned, and she pulled him in for a kiss. “But thank you. I felt like a real, functioning, operational person tonight. I felt part of a family. I’ve not had that in fucking _years_.”

Once he managed to get both himself and Nicola changed, cleaned up and into bed, Malcolm lay there, just thinking about how strange today had been. He’d told Nicola something about him that nobody he now had any contact with – his mother and sister excepted – knew about him. Something he had vowed never to tell anyone, because he knew that they would have only pitied him.

But Nicola did not pity him at all. She simply understood. Something about this woman fitted into his heart, like it had always had a place reserved. Time after time, Nicola defied Malcolm’s expectations.

And then there was Bella Whyte. Something there bothered him. Not that he could pull her out of the Scottish Secretary job – nor would he ever want to. “How well do you know Bella Whyte?” he asked Nicola.

“Um, she was born somewhere near Perth, I think. Married with kids. She’s asked me about ideas for social development in her constituency,” Nicola revealed. “I can’t say I was much use. I think very much in urban terms. She’s dealing with a massive rural area. The problems are very different. Mostly, she asked how to use shinty to bring young people together to get fit. I spent the entire conversation pretending I knew what the fuck she was talking about. She gave me more of an education than I gave her. She’s _very_ intelligent. She should probably have been given my job, to be honest.”

It was one of those things – mention something once, and it just so happened to crop up and steal his attention. In this case, it was the Isle of Skye. He’d spoken about the place to Ben and Nicola, he’d thought of the reason he went up there in the first place, he’d dragged the island’s MP down to London to be Scottish Secretary…it was strange, the coincidences that occurred on this fucking insane planet.

He turned off the light and lay back down so he was close to Nicola, cautiously resting his head on her shoulder. Malcolm was still displaying a fair amount of restraint, still guarded about how he showed affection. It was easier now, but still it made him overthink even as simple a gesture as leaning his head on her shoulder. Her head tilted slightly to rest against his; he could feel himself relaxing, dozing off into a comfortable sleep.

That was, until, he heard Nicola’s sleep filled voice whisper, “Malcolm?”

He opened his eyes. “Yeah, Nic’la?”

“What the fuck _is_ shinty?” She was half-asleep. He should have known.

He smiled to himself and rolled his eyes before closing them. “A fucking good way to break bones.”

“Hmm,” she mumbled. She was out of it now. He doubted whether she had even fully heard his answer. So, with a sigh, he kissed her shoulder and went to sleep.


	18. Tuesdays

Tuesday was less forgiving. By eleven o’clock, he wanted to lock his office door and smack his fucking forehead against it for the rest of the fucking day. Regardless of what anyone said, Monday was not the worst day of the week. Mondays were for dealing with crises that occurred over the weekend. Tuesdays were for the rest of the shit he’d hoped would have got lost somewhere in the mania of Monday.

“’James Murray, husband of Nicola Murray, Minister for Social Affairs and Citizenship, was arrested in a London supermarket on Sunday afternoon. This comes a mere four days after the tragic death of their teenage daughter, Katie Murray,” Julius Nicholson read aloud. “According to a witness of the scene, Mrs. Murray was shopping with her children and her colleague and apparent friend, Malcolm Tucker, when Mr. Murray approached them. Mr. Tucker proceeded to share a few choice words about Mr. Murray’s capabilities as a husband and father – many beginning with the letter ‘f’ – including an accusation of the attempted murder of Mrs. Murray. Indeed, Mrs. Murray’s face was battered, she could not walk unaided and one arm was supported by a sling. Mr. Murray threw a punch at Mr. Tucker, only to have Number 10’s Director of Communications block his fist. The altercation ended with Mr. Murray on the floor with a bleeding nose, held down by Mr. Tucker. When the police did arrive, Mr. Murray was arrested on charges of assault, actual bodily harm and the attempted murder of Nicola Murray.’”

“Fuck’s sake,” Malcolm groaned. “I was hoping the West Lothian fucking hurricane of shit would overshadow that.”

“Oh, they don’t finish there,” Julius retorted. “’Once the trouble had subsided, Mr. Tucker turned his attentions to Mrs. Murray; the comfort he provided to the Minister and her children appeared to go beyond the call of a colleague, and even overreached that of a casual friend. One must wonder if the scariest man in Downing Street may have fallen for the sullen head of DoSAC as tragedy and trauma throw them to sea, stuck in the same boat.’”

Malcolm paced the room, wondering which one of those nosy fuckers in that shop had gone to the papers to let the whole world know about the Murray family shit show. “Look, Julius, would you rather I’d fucking let him kill her?” he asked, fighting to keep his tone level and volume low. “Because, believe me, he fucking would’ve. He’s fucking cracked. I was there, and she was in danger. Of course I took it upon myself to protect the Minister.” He was careful not to use Nicola’s first name; it was a sure-fire way to betray what was really going on.

“Can you appreciate how this looks? The PM, Malcolm, is a little confused, to say the very least.”

“Tom’s always fucking confused,” Malcolm snorted.

“Last week, you were seen taking her to work. You take her to the police station to report her husband. You were also seen taking her home from hospital on Saturday, by the way,” Julius added, “but the papers, given her injuries, decided it would be in bad taste to run with that. And now it comes out that you decked her husband in the middle of a suburban supermarket!”

Malcolm stopped his pacing. “I took her to work because last week because I had to explain to her department what the fuck she was doing at work at all,” he began. He’d already prepared excuses for every point Julius had made – he’d known this was coming. Yesterday had merely been a stay of execution. “Someone had to do it. When I took her to the police station, my only thought was that the fucking press were sure to get hold of it, and you know what she’s fucking like. She’d have either went into all the gory details or run away crying if I hadn’t sat her down and made her draft a fucking statement! On Saturday, her husband barged into the house. There was a fight, and he ended up stabbing her. She called me to ask how to sell it to the media. I told her to keep it quiet unless they asked. It just so happened she was discharged while I was there, and I’m not a fucking monster, so I drove her home. And Sunday, well, she needed somebody there to answer any fucking awkward questions for her, because, if you recall, she can’t be fucking trusted to know the difference between on and off the record!”

It was all lies. Apart from the few scraps of truth, that Nicola had once got on and off the record confused, that he’d had to let DoSAC staff know that Nicola intended to work last Thursday, it was about eighty percent fabrication.

“And what about all this, “comfort beyond the call of colleague or friend,” stuff, Malcolm?”

“She was fucking terrified, Julius!” Malcolm shouted. “The man who’d tried to fucking kill her had stalked her into the supermarket! Even I wasn’t going to leave her to go into the fucking panic attack of the fucking millennium!”

Julius glared at him, but Malcolm knew there was nothing to be done. Everything about his complaint could be remedied with a lie.

“And what about your three days off?” Julius challenged him.

“It’s been stressful and I need a fucking break, okay?” Malcolm roared. “I’m only fucking human! Between this place and Nicola Murray’s fucking EastEnders lifestyle, my fucking brain is turning to fucking frogspawn!”

Julius frowned, but accepted the answer. He clearly wasn’t pleased about it, but there was no way for him to prove anything. “Alright, Malcolm, fine. If that’s the way you want to play it, go ahead,” Julius relented, raising his hands. “But, man to man, just be careful, alright? She’s married to a murderous raving lunatic.”

“Aye, fine,” Malcolm snapped. “Anything else?”

“Yes, as it happens,” Julius said. “Could you speak to Bella Whyte about muttering in Scots under her breath? Her new civil servants don’t know what to make of it, or her.”

“I would, but for two fucking reasons,” Malcolm retorted. “Firstly, fucking no. We don’t ask you not to speak English in Scotland. And secondly, even if I was willing to tell her to stop speaking Scots, if it’s the same as what she uses over the phone, it isn’t fucking Scots.”

“Then what is it?” Julius demanded.

“I don’t fucking know!” exclaimed Malcolm. “Jesus fucking Christ, Julius! I’m guessing the whole point is that nobody, Scottish or English, knows what she’s fucking saying! Just fucking lay off the girl, right? The last thing we need is for her to jack it in because she feels fucking oppressed by upper class fucking English ballbags! That would really give Holyrood something to fucking sell!”

“You must know if you know it’s not Scots!”

“No, Julius, I just know what fucking Scots sounds like, and whatever Bella Whyte speaks, it isn’t fucking Scots!” he shouted. His patience was gone. Vanished into thin air. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a fucking stack of work the height of Ben fucking Lomond!”

The day didn’t get much better. He had a similar conversation with the Prime Minister about Nicola. Thankfully, he was not nearly as sharp as Julius, and Malcolm found it worryingly easy to fob off the head of government. All he’d had to do was remind him there was a big gap between Nicola Murray’s tiny little DoSAC and the hole Bella Whyte had to plug as Scottish Secretary. “Nicola fucking Murray is the least of your problems, Tom, mate,” he had shouted. “I’d be more concerned about the Scottish First Minister contracting a construction crew at the border if we don’t watch our fucking step!”

Malcolm’s head, by the time he was heading towards Nicola’s home as the sky darkened, felt like it was going to implode. The only upside of today was that all of the shit was out of the way. The press had their field day, now that the real politics had been dealt with yesterday, and it was done with. Katie’s death was out of bounds. They would inevitably report on James’ court case whenever that started, but they would side with Nicola, because even the Daily fucking Mail couldn’t find a way to side with a wife-beater over a slightly incompetent Cabinet Minister.

He walked in the door and straight to kitchen, looking for anything alcoholic to drink before his strained muscles turned to granite. “Malcolm?” Nicola called. He heard her hobbling through from the living room as he poured himself some whisky. He knocked it back without even tasting it. “Malcolm, are you alright?”

Nicola closed the door and limped over to him. “I’m fucking fine,” he muttered.

“You’re not,” she said, leaning her weight against the countertop. “If you were, you wouldn’t have headed straight for the whisky bottle.”

Malcolm didn’t look at her. He didn’t want to have to tell her that he’d had to defend her to the hilt, that he’d been forced to lie about the nature of their relationship, that he’d had to make her sound like an idiot to avoid them both ending up in a sinking bog of shit.

But it turned out, he didn’t have to. “I saw the news,” Nicola told him. “I know they reported on what happened on Sunday, now there’s no Scottish crisis to fucking divert their fucking snide remarks.”

“It’s just been a fucking tough day,” he admitted, pouring himself another drink. “Julius Nicholson was being a twat about you. And about Bella Whyte, and she’s not even got any further than meeting her department staff yet. D’you know, I’ll actually be glad to have the rest of the fucking week away from that fucking toxic waste pit.”

“Don’t speak so soon,” Nicola smirked. “You’re going to be bored out of your fucking skin.”

Malcolm looked at her for a moment before turning his gaze to the bottom of his glass. The door opened and Ben and Sophie ran in. “Mummy! Granny wants to know when you want her to make dinner!” yelled Ben.

“I’m making dinner,” Malcolm decided. “Fajitas okay?”

“Yeah,” frowned Nicola. “You sure?”

“It’ll do me some good.”

He didn’t change his clothes. Instead, he set about chopping chicken and vegetables. It was only once everything was prepared for cooking that he went upstairs and changed into joggers and a t-shirt. He couldn’t give a fuck about his appearance. All he wanted was to be comfortable, and to sit down with Nicola, Victoria and the kids for a half-decent meal after surviving on coffee and biscuits all day.

As he was cooking everything up and making sauce, he shouted, “Ella, Sophie!” The girls ran in to him, and he said, “Could you guys set the dining table for me?”

“Sure, Malcolm!”

And before long, they sat at the table with their dinner. Malcolm was, for the first time, a normal man. He _felt_ a normal man. He’d just done what normal men did – come in from a fucking horrendous day at work, had a dram, and made dinner for what, for now, was his family. A slightly dysfunctional family of misfits, but still.

Everything of today – Julius, Tom, Bella, everything that was said about himself and Nicola – went to the back of his mind. He was able to compartmentalise. He’d never been able to do this before. Work always fucking tap danced in the forefront of his fucking mind, refusing to be ignored. But here there were more important things. Work – the fucking insanity of the Government of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland – could wait until he was due to go back.

Later, after Victoria left and the children went to bed, Malcolm was slouched on the sofa next to Nicola, watching some bizarre comedy with zombies and a great deal of swearing. In truth, Malcolm wasn’t really paying much attention. His mind, now that the children were at peace and Nicola seemed to be okay, drifted back into work. There were two things bothering him. One was important, the other probably totally fucking inconsequential.

The first was that Nicola was going to be back at work on Monday, and Malcolm couldn’t guarantee what she would go back to. Her team wasn’t known for being very delicate or subtle about their opinions, and the press would be watching for the first sign she was not coping. Malcolm had to think of a way to aid her without arousing suspicion about his attachment to Nicola.

The other was silly. It didn’t even matter. But Julius had made him wonder about it. If the language Bella Whyte spoke wasn’t Scots – and he was almost certain it wasn’t – then what the hell was it? It wasn’t Gaelic; he might not have been able to speak Gaelic, but he knew it to hear it. It was, of course, none of his business. That wasn’t enough to curb his curiosity.

“How are you feeling now, Malcolm?” Nicola asked.

“Better,” he replied. For once, that was an answer he could give with absolute honesty. Though he was worried about certain things, he could think beyond them. “What about you?”

“Let’s not go there,” Nicola chuckled without any humour at all.

“No, my dear, let’s fucking go there,” he retorted.

Nicola unsteadily got to her feet; Malcolm’s first fear was that she might fall. Her balance since having a knife removed from her thigh had been a bit fucking shit. But she gained her equilibrium, and started to move towards the door. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to say, which meant it was probably something he needed to know. He stood up and stepped in front of her, blocking her way to the door.

The look on her face, the expression of someone who’d quite simply run out of energy, said it all.

“You fucking promised you’d tell me,” he reminded her.

“Malcolm…”

“Is that what it is, Nic’la?” he asked her.

He didn’t need to clarify what he meant. She had, after all, only made that promise on Sunday night. “Yes,” she whispered.

“Speak, Nic’la.”

She stared up at him, her eyes changing colour slightly as she moved under the light of the standing lamp in the corner. “It’s…” she began, like she didn’t really know what she was about to say. “It’s like I’ve got a Katie-shaped hole. I’ve had her sixteen years and she’s just…gone.” Malcolm didn’t speak. If he knew Nicola, this was going to have to be a fucking monologue. “And James has taken that hole and fucking twisted it until it can’t do anything but bleed. I’ve lost my child and my marriage. I’ve lost any bravery and courage I had. I’m constantly fucking anxious, always on the verge of a panic attack. I don’t even fucking know who I _am_ anymore. I can’t live with that, Malcolm. I just can’t.”

She didn’t cry. Malcolm knew she didn’t have enough of her own soul left to cry. He’d seen that once before, nearly thirty-three years ago, and it absolutely fucking terrified him. He would not allow himself to let her down like he’d let his own fucking father down. “You can live with it,” he whispered to her. “You can and you will. And if you need help – if you need a doctor to help with some of it – we can get you that. If you need me, Nic’la, I swear, I’m here.”

She nodded her head slowly, and reached up to his face. She kissed him with that same intensity, that same ferocity that both hid and exposed her most excruciating thoughts and emotions, simply by creating waves in the black water in which they lurked.


	19. Orcadian Strip the Willow

Malcolm woke suddenly when he turned over to find Nicola was gone. He didn’t think. He turned on the lamp and dived out of bed, allowing the slightest glance at the clock. It was 1:34am. The house was silent. All three children were sound asleep. He quietly checked the bathroom and Katie’s room, but there was no sign of Nicola.

He wondered if she had gone downstairs to watch television, or if she’d woke up hungry or thirsty. Why hadn’t she got him up to help her down the stairs?

The silence was shattered by a clattering of wood downstairs. Malcolm froze. It wasn’t loud – if he hadn’t been awake, it probably wouldn’t have disturbed his sleep. None of the children were moving in their rooms. They were still out for the count.

There was no way it was James; he was fucking locked in a jail cell, where he belonged. So, Malcolm quietly headed down the stairs. He checked the living room, only to find it empty.

When he opened the kitchen door, however, the light was on. Nicola was lying on the floor, a chair knocked over next to her. “Nic’la!” he exclaimed, running barefoot onto the freezing cold tiles, dropping to his knees next to her. She was trying to get up, but was struggling to do it with only one useful arm; he gathered her up and let her lean into his chest. “Are you hurt?” he asked her.

“No,” she mumbled.

“What the fuck were you doing standing on a chair?” he scolded her. She didn’t answer, but she did claw her hand into his chest. He looked down, trying to see her face, but she’d buried it in the cloth of his pyjama shirt. But in her hand was a length of blue rope, the kind used as washing line when he lived in Glasgow, tied into a loop with a scruffy knot, its purpose desperately obvious. He reached down and prised it out of her fingers; when he looked up above his head, he saw they were sitting almost directly underneath one of the open beams that ran the breadth of the room. “Oh, Nicola,” he croaked. “What were you thinking?”

He held her head to his chest, and kissed her hair.

“You don’t need to do that, my darling,” he whispered to her. That dreaded stone stuck itself firmly in his throat. “My sweet, sweet woman, you don’t need to do that.”

Gone was any pretence that he didn’t love her. This was no time for trying to protect his own heart.

Nicola wasn’t saying anything. The only reassurance Malcolm had that she was still with him was her chest moving against his. “Oh, my love,” he said, his voice cracking with the stone pressing against his throat. He made no effort to swallow back his tears. “This isn’t the way.”

He had been right not to trust her kiss earlier. He knew why she’d been so forceful, so aggressive. She was trying to hide it. That was her way of muddying the waters, trying to make him believe she was alright, and that her soul wasn’t in bits. He was not an idiot. There was some creature that lurked in her, killing Nicola slowly before his eyes, and she used passion to conceal it from him.

The lies Nicola tried to spin with a kiss, Malcolm had once seen his father succeed in spinning with rage. It had cost his father his life. It could not cost Nicola the same. He could not allow that to happen.

“I know you must be tormented with it,” Malcolm murmured to her. “It must be excruciating. I can’t even fucking imagine. But you are so loved,” he assured her gently, stroking her hair with the tips of his fingers. “Your children worship you. Your mum fucking adores you. I-” he cut himself short of what he was thinking.

For the first time, she moved her head to look up into his eyes. He didn’t know how he’d not understood her before now – her eyes had not changed at all, but only now could he see just how lost she was. How could he have been so blind to it, a second time around? Her fingers reached out and touched his tears, and she looked at the water on the tips of her fingers like it was the most peculiar thing she’d ever seen. Her expression was not one he’d ever seen her wear, and it frightened him half to death.

“Have you taken anything?” he demanded. Nicola shook her head. He believed her, though thousands wouldn’t have. Malcolm could see there was no reason for her to lie, now that he knew everything.

If not for Nicola’s injuries, he could have sat there all night with her if it was going to save her life. But she was injured, and it could do her no good to sit on a cold hard floor, her legs twisted into uncomfortable positions. He lifted her upright and sat her into one of the chairs.

She winced, and he had to wonder how she hadn’t seriously hurt herself. To be on the safe side, he pushed her nightdress up her legs and checked that the stitches in her thigh had not torn, and checked the wounds on her arms had not opened up in the fall. He checked her shoulder hadn’t left its socket, and that there were no new bumps to her head. Physically, it seemed she was no worse off than when they’d gone to bed about three hours before.

Malcolm sighed and kissed Nicola’s forehead, before returning the overturned chair to its rightful position, and picking the rope up of the floor and binning it. “Come on,” he said. He put his arm around her waist and helped her to her feet. “Bed.”

Once they were up the stairs, Malcolm lowered Nicola into the bed. She had to have been in pain, but she did not complain; he suspected that was mostly because she found herself incapable of speech. He crawled into bed beside her, lying on his side with his hand resting lightly on Nicola’s chest. He wanted to feel her heart beating, now that he was terrified that she might choose to force its stop. Her skin was warm, her body alive in spite of everything else.

“Please, don’t ever do that again,” he implored her. “It’s not the way, my darling.”

She stared at him, and spoke for the first time since confirming she hadn’t hurt herself in the fall. “Don’t tell the children,” Nicola said. “They don’t need to know.”

“Of course.”

He’d never been so scared in his life, seeing her on the floor with that rope in her hand. She had been pushed to the brink of destruction by tragic circumstance and wilful abuse, and he hadn’t noticed. He’d taken her strength at face value, never seeing that, at times, it hid a burning desire for her life to end. He was still terrified, even though he could feel her heartbeat and hear her breathing. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” he said.

“It’s not.”

He reached out with his other hand, grabbing hers and squeezing tight. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You shouldn’t have to deal with me.”

“I _want_ to deal with you,” he replied. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t doubt it. He wanted Nicola. He’d been under no illusions that she was entirely stable – the fact she wasn’t, and had generally been honest about it, made him respect her more for the way she managed to survive. “I want _you_ , Nic’la, whether you’re alright, anxious, hurt, or even fucking suicidal.”

Nicola closed her eyes. “Why me, Malcolm? Why my daughter? Why my fucking husband?”

“There’s no fucking sense about this world,” Malcolm sighed. “Things just happen. Accidents like Katie’s are completely random. I know you fucking know that.”

“And what about James? I must’ve done something to start him off.”

“James chose to deal with grief the wrong way,” Malcolm sighed. “It’s as simple as that. You know the five stages thing?” Nicola nodded, so he carried on. “Well, I reckon you’re somewhere between bargaining and fucking depression. You’re bouncing between the two. James got stuck at anger, and he couldn’t find out who was to blame, so he directed that anger at you. It’s not fair. He was completely fucking wrong, and I fucking despise him for what he’s done to you, but that’s what I reckon’s happened.”

She was listening – he knew she was – but she didn’t open her eyes. “What were you going to say? Downstairs, I mean?” Nicola asked him.

Malcolm paused before answering, choosing to play the idiot. “When?”

“When you said about the kids and Mum. You were going to say something else.”

Her eyes opened. They really were the most wonderfully bizarre colour. He’d noticed that months ago; the colour of Nicola Murray’s eyes changed with her emotions and the lights.

Malcolm didn’t know how to say it. He didn’t even know if he could say it, or if he should, given the state of things. It might only have pressurised her more. So what he couldn’t put into words, he said with a kiss to her lips, his hand clutching her nightdress in his fist where it rested over her heart. He was no good at this. He could not spill his guts like she sometimes could. The closest to that he’d come to was in the hospital on Saturday, purely because the sight of her lying there after being so very close to death tore down his barriers.

He didn’t know if she understood. Her face was almost totally void of emotion, like she was actively trying not to feel. Like she was trying not to be human.

It was the most frightening thing to witness, someone who was normally overtly emotional turn to stone. To Malcolm, it signalled she was at a dead end, staring at a brick wall, and the only way to escape was to turn back and face everything from which she ran, or collapse the wall on top of her, to be crushed and killed by its weight. He knew that look. That expression that told of a person who had nowhere left to go. He’d lived through the consequences of someone he loved dearly tearing the wall down on themselves.

He didn’t think he could bear it if he lost Nicola to that same wall.

Nicola’s hand relinquished his, only to fall upon the fist on her chest, her heartbeat now steady against his knuckles. “’My love.’ That’s what you called me.”

He watched for her reaction, but she didn’t give one. He’d half-expected her to dive out of bed, repulsed by the idea that something as hardened and toxic as he was could feel love. But she didn’t, and he was relieved. In the heat of the moment, scared and shocked, he had put his own problem with emotion to one side, and had let her know she was loved, albeit in a roundabout way.

He found he crumbled under her gaze, and so looked away so as not to meet her penetrating stare. Though she was pushing back her own emotions, he could feel her seeking his out. “Malcolm,” she mumbled. “Look at me.”

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t look at her and know that he’d probably confused her. She pulled his fist up to her mouth, and kissed his knuckles. Her fingers traced along his arm, up his neck and onto his face. She ran her finger along his lips, and he finally looked at her.

“Promise me, Nic’la,” he said to her. “Promise me you’ll come to me, rather than try and kill yourself. I mean it, Nic’la.”

She leaned in and kissed him hard, like she was trying to take control of what he could ask of her, or she was trying to say it was fixed and he didn’t need to worry. But Malcolm took her face in his hands and pulled her face from his, just an inch or two. “Nicola,” he warned her. “Stop this.”

“Why?”

“Because I fucking need to know if I can keep you safe,” he said. “I need you to let me look after you, and that means being fucking honest!”

Nicola stroked his face. “Okay, Malcolm,” she whispered. “I promise. I really do swear this time.”

Her hand twisted into his hair, dragging him in for a kiss. But this kiss was not a lie. She was soft once more, her passion burning slowly rather than being doused in petrol and set alight. In her honesty, she forced down Malcolm’s defences, his hands drifting freely over the uninjured parts of her body as she pressed herself against his chest and stomach. He was careful of her arm between them, still in a sling, but he allowed himself the luxury of holding her. They could not go beyond this, since Nicola was still very much bruised and stitched, and Malcolm was not willing to risk causing her further injury. But this was enough to break the bars of the cage in which he locked every emotion he didn’t know how to express. It all danced out into the open. The fear of losing her, the need to know she was alive, the safety of being in her arms, despite the knowledge that this was the only thing that was right in their fucking mess of a world.

Victoria had been right: he was a goner. Whatever it was about Nicola, it had drawn him in, and shown him that he was a better man than he’d ever believed he was. She made him do the things he wished people could have once done for him. She brought out the worst in him at work, most definitely, but here, behind closed doors, where there was only them with no politics or press between them, she brought out the best in him. He was suddenly capable of feeling everything under the sun, even that to which he would have much rather remained ignorant. There was never a time in his adult life when his heart had been so full, and it was Nicola’s doing.

Between kisses, before he knew how to block their path, the words hurtled out of his mouth, his head spinning like he’d been doing an Orcadian Strip the Willow for the last ten minutes. “I love you.”


	20. The Things They Never Had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the penultimate chapter. One more to go. After that, it's on to a sequel, and a whole new world of fucking trouble for Malcolm and Nicola. I do hope you've enjoyed this, though!

On Wednesday morning, Malcolm was the one to get the children ready for school. He left Nicola to sleep when the alarm did nothing to wake her. He did, however, place two fingers to her neck, because he had to be sure she was still with him. It was paranoia, of course, but that wasn’t enough to stop him from doing it.

Just before ten, once he’d dropped off the children at their schools and cleared away the breakfast mess, he sat down with the phonebook. He was determined to get Nicola some help. The help he didn’t have access to when he was grieving. The help that could have prevented him running away to Skye, and could have stopped him from turning into the hardened piece of shit he was. He would not allow that to happen to Nicola. Though incompetent and slightly useless, she was good. She was a good woman, whose priority was to love, and he was determined to keep her that way.

He went upstairs and opened the curtains in Nicola’s room. “Come on,” he said to her as she stirred. “Up at fucking at ‘em!”

“Do you need to be so fucking cheerful first thing in the morning?”

“First thing?” he scoffed. “It’s fucking ten o’clock!”

“What?!” she shouted. “Christ, I’ve got to get the kids up and get them to school before lunchtime! Why didn’t you fucking wake me!”

“Calm down,” he said, sitting down and stroking her hair away from her face. She had sat up too quickly; he could see the pain in her face. “The kids are away to school, perfectly alright.”

He got her out of bed and down stairs, and sat her at the kitchen table. She glared at him, perhaps sensing he’d formed a plan in his head. Silently, he turned the phonebook to her, pointing at the number he’d circled in black ink. “No, Malcolm!” she shouted, before he could even try and sell it to her.

“Listen to me!” he interrupted her. He couldn’t give her the chance to dive into a rage about this. “Listen. You know when I was sixteen, and my dad died? I wish I’d had this fucking opportunity,” he tapped the phonebook with his middle finger. “I wish I’d had the chance to go to someone who _knows_ how to help. But that wasn’t fucking there. The only option I had was to drag myself through my exams and fuck off to Skye until university started. And if I could’ve gone to something like this, I might not be the fucking-” he stopped short of the rant about his own failings he could feel himself heading into. “Look, Nic’la, I wasn’t always this loud, angry, fucking…Shrek. I wasn’t always Shrek. Until I was sixteen, I was a nice person. I did stupid things – got drunk in the field, battered that boy who groped my sister on the school bus – but I was a good person. But I let grief make me an unhappy person. I dealt with it by making sure I was fucking hated so that I always knew I let my dad down. I went up to Skye, I ran away from my family, and I put this massive fucking iron wall between me and anyone who wants to know me. I took the pain and I let it break me. I don’t want that for you. I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

Nicola looked up at him. “Malcolm…”

“Give it a try, Nic’la,” he implored her. “If you hate it, then fine, it’s not for you. But at least give it a fucking shot. Don’t turn into me. You’re too good to end up like me.” He offered up the house phone in his hand. She grudgingly took it. “But, Nic’la, you’ve got to be honest with them.”

She nodded slowly. She took the phone and dialled the number. “Hi,” she said. “I, um, I’m not sure where to start…” Nicola trailed away. The person on the other end spoke, and Nicola said, “Well, my daughter, she, uh, she died last week. And my husband has been violent. And last night-” Nicola’s voice cracked, tears flowing down her face. “Last night, I tried to kill myself.”

Malcolm reached out and rested his hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently.

“If it’s possible, yes…Nicola Murray…Sixth of January, 1966…Dr. Tanya Gleeson…Thank you.”

Nicola hung up, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. “Emergency appointment. One o’clock today. With a grief and trauma specialist.”

She stood up and set about making herself coffee. Though he knew it probably caused her pain, he didn’t stop her; he strongly suspected she needed the distraction, so he let her get on with it. She didn’t say anything at all. She didn’t eat. She added a less than healthy shot of whisky to her coffee, that he pretended he didn’t see. He feared he’d just done more harm than good. Was she sulking? Or was it something worse?

She went upstairs on her own, without telling him where she was going. He listened closely in case she fell. Or at least, he did until his phone rang.

Bella Whyte. How fucking bizarre.

“Hello?” he answered.

“Ah, they gave me the right number!” Bella exhaled. “Listen, Malcolm, could we meet up this afternoon, before I go up to Skye to pack the kids up?”

“Um, yeah, sure,” he said. “How does quarter past one sound?”

“Okay.”

“The café on Catherine Street. I’ll be in that area anyway.”

“Okay. See ye then.”

They both hung up. It was strange – what did Bella Whyte want, meeting up with him before going home?

But he put that out of his mind when he realised Nicola had been upstairs nearly forty minutes without so much as a sound. He took the stairs two at a time, quietly fearing something may have gone terribly wrong. “Nicola?” he shouted. She didn’t answer when he knocked on the door, so he opened it slowly. She was there, and she was still alive.

She was standing in front of the full-body mirror, wearing only a bra and knickers, her fingers moving over her bruises and wounds. Quietly, he stepped across the room, and said, “You should have that sling on.”

“The doctor said I can take it off after a few days,” she mumbled, “and it’s getting on my fucking nerves now.”

He sighed. Carefully, he put his arms around her waist and kissed her neck. “Bella Whyte wants me to meet her at quarter past one,” he said, “so I’ll go up with you, make sure you’re okay, and I’ll be in the café opposite with her, alright? I’ll have my phone with me. If you need me, call me and I’ll be straight back over to you.”

“Bella Whyte?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “No idea why. But I didn’t want to argue with her. She’s fucking scary,” he admitted. “If you tell anyone I said that, I’ll move you to the Scottish office with her,” he added.

Nicola smiled slightly. “You know, she reminds me of you,” she said. “She has that same way about her. Nobody would dare piss her off if they could help it. Must be the accent. Hers is even fucking worse than yours.”

“I always said you English were fucking intimidated by us,” he teased.

She slapped his hand but gripped it tightly afterwards. He turned her around and looked her in the eyes without the aid of a mirror. She kissed him, her lips soft against his, and started to unbutton his shirt. “Nic’la,” he cautioned her. “You’re still-”

She pulled his shirt off his back and said, “Oh, fucking shut up, Malcolm.”

The harder she kissed him, the harder it was to resist her. She’d had her hands over every inch of his torso, as he had hers, and as she fought with his belt buckle, he decided it was better just to give in. This was what Nicola wanted. He hadn’t pressured her at all. She smiled against his lips when he unhooked her bra, the signal that he would give her what she wanted, despite his misgivings about her bruises and stitches. He would just have to be gentle with her.

He bent over slightly and scooped her into his arms, careful of her stitched thigh; she let out a surprised squeal, giggling slightly as he lay her down on the bed.

She was happy, if only for as long as they shared on this bed.

* * *

 

At ten minutes to one, they sat in the waiting room of the counselling centre, filling out forms and answering questions that held little bearing to what she was here for – ethnicity, nationality, sexuality. She was here because of a dead daughter and a violent thug of a fucking husband, not because she was being racially or homophobically bullied.

“Nicola Murray?”

Malcolm looked up to see a woman of about twenty-eight or twenty-nine smiling at Nicola, inviting her into a room just off the waiting area. Nicola turned to him, looking slightly panicked. “I’ll be just across the road,” he promised her with a kiss. “I’ve got my phone. But, Nic’la, you’re perfectly safe here. You can say whatever you need to say.”

She nodded and kissed him quickly, heading towards her counsellor and, Malcolm hoped, some peace.

Malcolm got up, handed over a small scrap of paper and said to the receptionist, “Listen, she’s got some anxiety problems. Sometimes she panics. If she freaks out and you can’t calm her down, call this number?”

“Thank you, Mr. Tucker,” she smiled. “But please don’t fret. I’m sure your Nicola will be alright.”

By the time Malcolm got over to the café opposite the counsellor’s surgery, he was most definitely late, and his head was so full that he didn’t think he could handle any of Bella Whyte’s intimidating antics. He sat down opposite her with some trepidation. He’d never been so unnerved by a person in this way before. Even Nicola didn’t unnerve him like this. It was a totally different thing, this inability to predict Bella. She was known for it. Feared for it. A little like he was, as Nicola had pointed out. Maybe it was the accent – Jamie MacDonald was feared for it too. Or maybe unpredictability was a rather more Scottish trait than an English one.

“I ordered you coffee,” Bella smiled. Though her expression was one of warmth, there was still a steely coldness about her. Her teeth caught his attention; though perfectly straight, they were in a very flat, square row, and her canines were so pointed he didn’t doubt the softest bite might draw human blood.

He sat down opposite, and she handed him a slip of paper, with the name of a restaurant, its address and a time. “I’ve made a reservation for you,” she said. “A table for five, seven o’clock tomorrow. I’ve paid them enough for you to eat yourselves into the shape of beach balls,” she grinned.

“Why?” he frowned.

“My uncle died as a baby,” she said. “I never endured it, but the pain nearly killed my grandmother. She threw herself off the Dunkeld bridge, into the Tay. She was fucking lucky to survive.” Malcolm remained quiet, knowing this was a story Bella needed to tell. “She wasn’t surrounded by kindness. My grandfather dealt with death by hitting the bottle, and Granny had four other children to care for. It’s not much, but I wanted to do something kind for Nicola Murray. A nice meal out with her children might lift her spirits enough to make the funeral tolerable on Friday, too.”

“Why a table for five, though?” Malcolm quizzed her, taking a sip of warm coffee. “She only has three children, and her husband’s in jail.”

Bella raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m not stupid, Malcolm. I know you’re seeing her. You’ve been looking after her all this past week. We all know that’s why you’ve been more fucking highly-strung than usual.”

Her cold blue eyes held his gaze unrelentingly. She was such a paradox of callousness and kindness, and of warmth and iciness. Had he made a mistake in pushing for her to be Scottish Secretary, just because he didn’t fancy dealing with the only other option? He could not make heads nor tails of her, and that threw him. “Why are you taking the Scottish Secretary job?” he asked her.

She laughed incredulously. “You just about fucking forced me into the Cabinet meeting the other day!” she exclaimed. “And now you’re asking why I agreed to do it?”

“I know, but it’s such a long way from home, and you have family up there.”

“So do you.”

“I’m assuming you actually like your fucking family,” he scoffed. “Apart from my mum, my sister and my niece, mine all do my fucking nut in. Always fucking have done. But you’re young. You must have friends and family on Skye.”

“Friends, aye, but my family’s scattered all over Scotland. Mum and Gordon are in Brechin. My aunt's in Forfar. The rest are in Perthshire and Dundee. Couple of cousins in Glasgow and Aberdeen. An uncle in Fife. Euan’s in the same boat. No, we’re the only ones on Skye,” she grinned. “And I’ll see them as often as I do already.”

“Hmm,” Malcolm said, not wanting to scare her off the job.

Bella looked at her watch and groaned. “I’d better get going. Twelve and a half fucking hour drive in front of me.”

* * *

 

They kept the children off school on Thursday. The day was spent in central London, searching for funeral outfits. Nicola was eerily quiet as, one by one, her children found the outfit they were to see of their sister in. Malcolm bought a simple black suit. Nicola refused anything he or the children suggested for herself.

“If I decide on a dress,” she confessed as he helped her into yet another one she was trying on in the changing rooms, “it means I actually have to go and bury my child.”

“Darling,” he sighed, “you’re going to have to face it. And this suits you perfectly,” he added, his hands resting upon Nicola’s hips. “So rather than torture yourself for another hour just to buy something you hate at closing time, why not get something that looks good on you?”

It seemed to convince her, because at quarter to seven, they walked out of that shop with a black dress and flat shoes, since she could not be expected to wear heels with her thigh in the mess it was. He led them to the restaurant Bella had reserved for them; he’d not told them what they were doing or where they were going. He merely, once in the restaurant, said to the waiter that there was a reservation for five, either under the name of Murray, Tucker or Whyte – he was unsure as he hadn’t made it.

Nicola, Ella, Sophie and Ben sat around the table to which they were guided, looking thoroughly bewildered. “Bella Whyte,” he finally said to Nicola. “This was why she wanted to meet me yesterday. She’s paid for this.”

“But why?”

“She wants to be kind,” Malcolm said, carefully dodging the subject of Bella’s uncle in front of the children. “She wanted to give to you the kindness her family was never given.”

Nicola smiled and took his hand. “Scottish people are fucking weird.”


	21. The Parting Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! Sequel in the works. I've loved writing this - it allowed me to push some of my limits. Thank you for reading along, and for all the great feedback!

Footsteps echoed in the chapel. They’d arrived hideously early, just sitting there, staring at the coffin. Malcolm turned around to see who had joined them.

James Murray, handcuffed to a rather large police officer, was walking down the aisle. He passed his family without acknowledging them, his eyes only for Katie’s casket. It was scary, how little emotion that man expressed. Even Malcolm, who’d only ever seen Katie dead, was close to tears, but James’ face was cold and expressionless, even for his own fucking daughter.

Nicola looked at James for only a moment before she turned to her children, fussing over Sophie’s hairband and Ben’s shirt, wiping away a bit of stray eyeshadow from the side of Ella’s eye with her finger. Anything to avoid looking at James Murray. She turned to Malcolm and started doing the same thing, fixing his tie, even though it didn’t need fixed. He caught her hand and shook his head, taking in the sight of her terrified face.

“You’ll be okay,” Malcolm whispered. “And if you’re not, I’m here, and I’ll do whatever you need me to do.” Ella stood up and walked out of the chapel. Nicola groaned; Malcolm knew she didn’t have the strength for this. “I’ll go, it’s okay. I think I know what’s wrong.”

He got to his feet and followed Ella. When he found her, she stood with her forehead against the wall, her eyes closed as tears fell down her face. “Ella,” Malcolm said. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” she moaned. “What’s _he_ doing here?”

“Katie was his daughter,” Malcolm gently reminded her. “Whether we like it or not, he’s allowed to be here.”

“And if he hurts Mum?”

“He can’t,” Malcolm said, turning Ella by the shoulders to face him. “He physically can’t, Ella. He’s handcuffed to a policeman twice the bloody size of him. He can’t do anything to your mum, or to you.”

Ella nodded. “That’s my girl,” he smiled. He wiped her tears away with his thumb. “I need you to be brave, okay? Can you do that?”

She took a deep breath and looked up into his eyes. “Yes. I’ll be brave.”

“Good lass,” he said. Out of nowhere, she threw herself into his torso, hugging him with more force than he would have thought her tiny body capable of.

When they got back to the rest of the family, Ella said, “Sorry,” and hugged her mother.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Nicola sighed, stroking her daughter’s head. “Thank you,” she mouthed to Malcolm over the top of Ella’s head. He gave a small smile and kissed Nicola’s cheek. If James was not going to step up for these children, then Malcolm was going to have to. After all, they were what came with Nicola. He knew that from the very beginning. It was yet another new role he had to find his feet in.

Slowly, people arrived, filing in and squeezing up – by the time twelve o’clock came, half of Katie’s sixth form college was there, and the older years of her old secondary school. The choir was assembled at the top, probably having more space than most of the congregation.

The service passed by solemnly, quietly, until Nicola was asked to speak. She turned and looked at Malcolm. Her face said she couldn’t do this, and he never really expected that she could, but he had to let her try. He kissed her cheek and helped her to her feet, his heart breaking as he watched her slowly limp to the alter.

“Katie,” Nicola began, clearing her throat. “Katie Murray. My sweet, rebellious, stubborn girl. A daughter, a sister, a granddaughter, a cousin, a friend. A singer, a lover, a fighter, a thinker. The world will not be the same without her. I’ll never get to drag her by the feet out of bed, or threaten her with a cold bucket of water. I’ll never get to watch her play football with her baby brother, or do her sisters’ hair. That light in her eyes, I never knew where it came from. Certainly wasn’t from me. But it was there. It was a spark Katie could ignite ice with,” Nicola said. Her voice was going, and Malcolm knew Nicola well enough to know she was about to fail. “Katie was highly intelligent, and it made her watch the world around her. When she was six-”

Nicola burst into tears. Malcolm leapt to his feet and went to her; he put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her head, not caring a damn that Terri, Glenn, Robyn and Olly were somewhere here, or that the Prime Minister and Julius hid in the sea of otherwise young faces. Nicola passed him the sheet of paper but did not leave his arms.

“When Katie was six years of age,” Malcolm read out, “she asked me a question. She said, “Mummy, why do swear words exist if we’re not supposed to use them?” Needless to say, she’d probably heard her granny in the kitchen.”

Everyone laughed; even Nicola smiled slightly. Malcolm caught Victoria wiping her eyes with a grin.

“And that was Katie all over. You couldn’t get anything past her. If she was told “no,” she needed a reason. Same if she got her own way. She was a curious girl, always wanting the answers, and God help anyone who couldn’t give her them. She was my first born, my girl. The world is much quieter for her loss, and no better for it. But as Katie would have told me to do, we are going to keep living, until we’re alive again. For her.”

Malcolm folded the sheet of paper back over, to the applause of the entire chapel. He took Nicola back to her seat, and when he sat down, Ben came and pulled himself onto Malcolm’s lap. The vicar stood up and said, “We will now join Katie’s old school choir in singing _The Parting Glass_ , Katie’s favourite song.”

They rose to their feet, Ben clinging to Malcolm’s hand. “ _Of all the money that e’er I had, I spent it in good company_ ,” he sang. “ _And all the harm that e’er I’ve done, alas it was to none but me. And all I’ve done, for want of wit, to mem’ry now, I can’t recall. So fill to me the parting glass; goodnight and joy be to you all_.”

He glanced around at Nicola. She was singing – he could hear her voice – but she was crying hard. Ella stepped in front of Malcolm and came to Ben’s other side, taking the boy’s other hand. Sophie clung to her mother’s waist helplessly. “ _So fill to me the parting glass, and drink a health whate’er befalls; and gently rise and softly call, good night and joy be to you all_.”

Malcolm slipped his arm around Nicola’s waist and kissed her hair. James wasn’t looking anywhere at all. He wasn’t singing. He was just staring straight ahead, showing no emotion. Malcolm almost pitied him.

“ _Of all the comrades that e’er I had, they’re sorry for my going away; and all the sweethearts that e’er I had, they’d wish me one more day to stay. But since it fell unto my lot, that I should rise and you should not; I’ll gently rise and softly call, goodnight and joy be to you all_.”

Nicola leaned in towards him; he wondered if her leg was struggling to hold her weight, or if she was just losing the strength to endure this loss. “ _Fill to me the parting glass, and drink a health whate’er befalls; and gently rise and softly call, goodnight and joy be to you all_.”

From behind them, Malcolm could hear bagpipes. A teenage girl marched steadily down the aisle, playing the tune Malcolm knew too well from school music festivals and nights in Glasgow and Dublin pubs. The crowd clapped along in time. The school choir harmonised over the pipes, the verse then the chorus. As the piper positioned herself again at the back of the chapel, so as not to drown out the singing to come, Nicola sobbed into Malcolm’s chest.

“ _A man may drink and not be drunk; a man may fight and not be slain; a man may court a pretty girl, and perhaps be welcomed back again. But since it has so ordered been, by a time to rise and a time to fall; fill to me the parting glass; goodnight and joy be to you all_ ,” they sang. Malcolm felt hot tears pour down his face, unable to hold them back. In this past week, he’d had his barriers stripped back and his humanity laid bare, and he wouldn’t have changed anything about it, except that Katie’s death had triggered it.

“ _But since it fell unto my lot, that I should rise and you should not; I’ll gently rise and softly call, goodnight and joy be to you all_.”

Ben stepped up onto the pew and hugged Malcolm’s waist; the poor child was so overcome that he couldn’t sing. Malcolm held him tight in one arm and let Ella loop her arm around his. They’d ended up as one unit. “ _So fill to me the parting glass, and drink a health whate’er befalls. And gently rise and softly call, goodnight and joy be to you all…goodnight and joy be with you all_.”

Malcolm felt Nicola’s weight shift. Her legs had gone weak, and the only thing holding her upright was his grip. Ben seemed to realise this and broke away from Malcolm, so his mother could be helped. He put both his arms under Nicola’s, around her chest, and lifted her feet onto his; the tighter he held her, the tighter she clutched his back, and the harder she sobbed.

This, perhaps, was what she needed. Every time she had cried since Katie died, she’d held something back. Maybe she had been scared to let it out, because she didn’t know how painful it could be. But as six of Katie’s friends carried her coffin outside to the graveyard, there was nothing Malcolm could do to break the wave of torment that seemed to crash over Nicola.

Burying Katie was a blur to Malcolm. The entire time was spent keeping Nicola on her feet, weak as she already was with wounds and bruises.

By the time he got Nicola, Ben, Sophie and Ella into the car, Malcolm was exhausted. There was still the wake, and he was seriously doubting if he could face it. Glenn, Olly and Terri approached, all looking like they’d just been put through the wringer. “Malcolm,” Glenn said, “is Nicola back at work on Monday?”

“Um, yeah,” he said, stepping away from the car and out of Nicola’s earshot. “Yeah, I think that’s what she wants to do. Get back to fucking normal, you know? Or anything resembling fucking normal she can find after all this.”

“It’s so sad,” Terrie bleated; he had to resist the urge to tell her to stop being pathetic. “To lose your daughter and then have your husband lose the plot.”

“Yeah,” Malcolm murmured in agreement, watching his feet kick the dirt.

“I never thought I’d say this,” Olly added, “but I think she’s fucking lucky to have you, Malcolm.”

Malcolm’s head snapped up, and he glared at all. “Have me?”

“Come on, Malcolm,” scoffed Glenn. “After what we saw in there, you’re going to try and tell us there’s nothing between you and Nicola?”

Malcolm sighed. “Look, it was never meant to fucking happen,” he admitted. “It just did. But it changes fucking nothing at work. If Nicola fucks up, she still gets the bollocking of a lifetime from me.”

“We wouldn’t expect anything else,” grinned Olly.

“And I won’t be cutting you lot any fucking slack, either,” he added.

“You? Cutting people slack?” Terri smiled.

“Yeah, that’s the day we _know_ the apocalypse is coming,” Glenn said.

They all grinned at him, like they knew something he didn’t, but he didn’t want to know what they thought they knew; in his experience, when it came to those three, ignorance was fucking bliss. And besides, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they were as wrong as humanly possible. “Get back to fucking work,” he told them, but he couldn’t help but let the corners of his mouth twitch upwards.

They left him, Olly daring to give a salute, and Malcolm got into the car. This was the threshold of new and old, of trauma and faith, and he could trust himself just enough to know that, somehow, they would all end up on the right side of that line. Nicola Murray was stronger than to let herself be turned into something like him. He only hoped he could be what they needed him to be – human.


End file.
